


The Dollmaker

by VicXntric



Category: Dungeons and Dragons (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 14:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13660488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VicXntric/pseuds/VicXntric
Summary: A fic that sets the gang in Regency London. Started for the D&D Newsletter, then abandoned. Thanks to some nag--ahem, encouragement from old friends, I've managed to finish it.





	The Dollmaker

London, December, 1819

Vincent Gerald frowned at the various invitations that littered the salver in his front hall. He had stopped attending Society's functions years ago yet the invitations continued to pour into his fashionable St. James home. There had been a brief lull three years before when word went around that he had been forced to spend some time in the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem, but it hadn't been long before the invitations began flowing in again. Apparently a stay in Bedlam wasn't enough to tarnish his good name in Society, especially considering the factors he had in his favour.

First and foremost among these was the honorary title of Baron Vengrave. The title was granted to him at the age of 27 by King George III after he had completed a portrait doll of the Princess Royal. After establishing such a connection with royalty, Gerald was constantly in demand--everyone who was anyone _had_ to have a portrait doll done by young Lord Vengrave. Within seven years, he had amassed a fortune to rival that of any Earl's. His friendship with the Prince Regent meant that the _haute ton_ was willing to overlook the fact that he was--technically-- _in trade_ and that he was a mere commoner by birth. 

Ten years after completing his first portrait doll, he was frequenting the same clubs as Earls and Dukes and could usually be seen in the company of Lord Byron and his set. Experiments with opium and alchemy in addition to regular visits to the worst hells London had to offer first turned the handsome and talented young man into a handsome and talented young rake and eventually into a talented but debauched old man.

As far as Society knew, Lord Vengrave's last portrait doll had gone uncompleted. The Duke and Duchess of Hardcastle had commissioned him to create a doll of their only child--a little girl who was of a rather weak constitution. The child fell ill and died before Vengrave could complete the doll. When he announced that he would no longer accept commissions for portrait dolls, the ton assumed that the child's death had touched him deeply. Especially when he was sent to Bedlam shortly afterward; after creating a disturbance on the Pall Mall.

Unbeknownst to anyone but himself, Vengrave _did_ manage to complete the doll of the Hardcastle child by viewing the corpse every day that it was on display. The result was a pale doll with dark smudges under sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, a bloated stomach and tiny fingers clenched in death throes. Anyone who saw it would have seen a thoroughly grotesque creation.

Vengrave saw his best work ever.

His search for a second "work of art" was the incident that led to his being hospitalized. When Vengrave finally emerged from Bedlam he was free from his craving for opium and much wiser in the means of acquiring a model. He never ventured into Society after leaving Bedlam and lived in seclusion. The aura of mystery surrounding his withdrawal only made him more sought after and every hostess longed for him to return to Society by appearing at _her_ ball, thereby granting her the coup of the Season.

  


Londoners rarely pay attention when a child from the East End disappears. A youth missing from St. Giles meant one less pickpocket on the street and a woman missing from Covent Garden meant one less "unfortunate" to spread disease. So it was that Vengrave had all the models he could want and happily created portrait after portrait. 

  


London, June 2, 1825

Park Lane is reserved for only the richest of the rich. It was an unspoken rule that if one wanted to reside here, one's family ought to have a prestigious title and a sizable fortune to go with it. Baronets and Knights, no matter how wealthy or famous, were expected to make their homes in a different area of the fashionable West End.

It was no surprise then, during the height of the Season, that only people on Park Lane who were actually up and about at dawn were the servants. All the lords and ladies were still abed, recovering from the nightly round of parties and balls.

This morning there was the exception of Kelthorne Hall on Park Lane. The Duke of MacArran, who possessed several large portions of England and Scotland to go with his title, had arrived at his London residence the previous evening. Although His Grace spent most of his time on one of his Scottish estates, he did spend three weeks in London during the height of the Season. The only reason he concerned himself with the Season at all was to maintain the tradition of the masquerade that his family gave on Midsummer's Day. One of the highlights of the Season, people simply called it "The MacArran Masque" and everyone tried to assure themselves an invitation. The Duke always arrived two weeks before the masked ball to see to the final arrangements himself. 

The previous evening had been spent with his London steward looking over the guest list. Although it was customary to send out invitations at least four weeks before a ball, no one thought it strange that the Duke of MacArran would wait until a mere ten days before. Most women had costume gowns especially made for the MacArran Masque months beforehand in the hope of receiving an invitation and no one in the ton would ever dream of making other plans for June 24.

Today the Duke was up early and inspecting Kelthorne Hall from top to bottom with the butler and housekeeper following behind him like ducklings and taking note of every minor detail His Grace might mention. The rest of the day would be spent at his club or paying calls on some of his old friends.

The main reason the Duke was in London, however, was to assure himself that his grandson was living up to the Montgomery name. So, after changing into riding apparel, he ordered one of the footmen upstairs to fetch the Marquis of Blackmoor so he could join the Duke for a morning's ride in Hyde Park. Several minutes later a somewhat rattled footman returned to inform His Grace that his Lordship had declined and planned on remaining in bed for most of the morning. 

Fuming, the Duke left strict orders that his grandson attend luncheon with him and be prepared to join him in making calls afterward. Then, slapping his riding crop against his well-polished Hessians, he left Kelthorne, grumbling that if his mount wasn't ready and waiting someone would have hell to pay for it.

The servants all held their breath until they saw the Duke's prize stallion was indeed waiting in front of Kelthorne. The household released a collective sigh of relief and went back to work.

* * *

When Henry Grayson awoke in a large bed decorated with blue velvet hangings, it took him several minutes to recall where he was. Eventually it came to him that he was in the home of the Earl and Countess of Ravenwood, the distant cousins with whom he would be living from now on. It seemed like only minutes ago he had been in the loft of his uncle's house and at any moment, his aunt would be calling: "Hank, honey! Come on down and have your breakfast before it gets cold!" Now he was in a room four times larger than any he had ever had in New Hampshire in a house ten times grander than any he'd ever _seen_ in New Hampshire.

The last few months were little more than a blur to him. He had just begun to regain his equilibrium again after the fire that killed his parents and destroyed his home when a letter arrived from England that turned his world upside-down again. Then the changes started happening so rapidly that only now could Hank actually remember them in any semblance of order. Two letters--both from Earls who insisted that Hank travel to England; his aunt and uncle being upset by the situation, but reluctant to refuse; and their final decision that Hank would be better off with these distant cousins all took place weeks apart but seemed to take mere seconds to Hank. Time didn't slow down while his uncle settled what little was left of his parents' estate in order to raise money for the trip or while his aunt made him new clothes and packed his few remaining possessions for the journey. The train ride to New York just flew by and a tearful parting at the dock seemed dreamlike. The trip across the Atlantic was an eternity of homesickness and seasickness that didn't really evaporate on the London docks. 

Before he had much time to adjust to the noisy city, a man appeared, introducing himself as the Earl of Ravenwood and Hank's cousin. Hank was bundled into a carriage and out of the early morning mist before he'd managed to return to greeting. On the ride through London, his cousin kept a steady stream of conversation, but Hank rarely replied. Feverish, exhausted and thoroughly bewildered, Hank neither understood nor cared about half the things Ravenwood mentioned. He was ushered into a large, elegant house and introduced to the Countess of Ravenwood who seemed to be chattering about any number of diverse subjects and asking enumerable questions--none of which Hank had the wherewithal to answer.

Finally, Lord Ravenwood took pity on him and had a footman show Hank to his bed chamber. Hank didn't remember much about that either, he just knew the bed looked soft and comfortable and he wanted nothing more than to curl up under the covers. Barely acknowledging the footman, he did just that and fell into a deep sleep almost immediately.

While he sorted through these memories, Hank decided to get a better look at the city that was to be his new home. Throwing back the heavy bed coverings he got out of bed and padded to the window on bare feet. His eyes widened at the sight that greeted him. There was nothing but buildings as far as he could see. The number of carts, waggons and carriages that rolled past on the street below astonished him. 

When Hank realized that the sky was that of morning and that he must have "slept the clock around," as his mother used to say. It also occurred to him that he had not been displayed his best manners when meeting his cousins and he decided to rectify _that_ situation as quickly as possible. 

"That's better that staying up here and getting homesick," he murmured, stepping towards the nearest bureau to look for his clothes.

* * *

"Set them down, Brooke, that will be all."

"Very good, Lady Wylde," Brooke bowed slightly and left the breakfast room.

Annabelle Phillips, the Countess of Wylde rifled through the dozens of envelopes, "Most of these are for you, my dear. You have made quite a sensation."

Diana Silverbridge returned her smile with an amused look. "A sensation? Or I am I merely a novelty?"

"A sensation, my dear Diana, I assure you! Your father was an earl, after all."

"Ah, but if Papa had only been a baron, I _would_ be a mere novelty," Diana's dark eyes sparkled with laughter. "Is that the way of it?"

"If you were the daughter of a baron, London would not take note of you," Lady Wylde laughed.

Diana sipped her chocolate and decided that Society's views were of little interest to her. "What are your plans for today, Lady Wylde?"

"They are your plans, too, child. I thought we would take ourselves to Bond Street for our dresses for the MacArran Masque."

Diana's eyebrows rose. Although she had only been in England a short time, she already knew how important the MacArran Masque was. "Have you received an invitation?"

"Not yet, but I will. And so will you."

"Are you certain? Was Papa a close friend of the Duke?"

"No, dear. However, _I_ am. His Grace and I have been well-acquainted for over twenty years."

Diana restrained herself with difficulty from asking any questions. Annabelle Phillips had been considered an "Original" since she had first come out into Society some 22 years ago. However, she had landed herself an earl, and therefore she was assured admittance to the best the ton had to offer, no matter how outrageous her actions might be.

 _I suppose that's why no one would think it strange that she should take me in,_ Diana thought to herself. Her father, the Earl of Warwick, had met her mother while travelling to Sierra Leone. Diana's mother, Ruby Tatreux, was the daughter of freed slaves--her parents had helped established the community of Freetown in 1804. The young couple had fallen in love and despite all protests were married in both Catholic and Protestant ceremonies. One year later, Diana was born and the family remained in Africa, living very happily for the next 10 years. Ruby Silverbridge, the Countess of Warwick, died when Diana was only 11 and the Earl, unable to remain in the place that so reminded him of his wife, travelled to India with his beloved daughter and remained there, living in the same luxury as they had in Sierra Leone.

The Earl fell ill when Diana was 14, but before he died, he wrote to an old friend in England, asking the his daughter and her inheritance be properly looked after. His title and English land-holdings would be going to a cousin--one that Warwick didn't trust. 

The Earl of Wylde had been killed in a riding accident nearly a year before, but fortunately, the letter fell into the capable hands of the newly-widowed Countess of Wylde. Although she had never met Warwick, her husband had spoken of the man often and she sympathized with the motherless young girl. Ignoring the protocol of widowhood, she set sail for India two days after receiving the letter. Upon arriving, she found Warwick near-death and Diana in despair. Knowing that his daughter would be well-cared for revived the Earl somewhat, but he still died within the month. Lady Wylde remained in India for nearly a year, allowing Diana to properly grieve for her father before taking her to a new country.

Lady Wylde and Diana soon became the best of friends. Lady Wylde was at first astonished at a fourteen-year-old who spoke her mind so easily and decidedly, but she soon learned to value Diana's intelligence and unorthodox education. Unlike an "accomplished" English miss, Diana knew nothing of embroidery or watercolours. Rather, she could speak French--both Parisienne and Creole--as well as Hindustani as fluently as she could English. In addition, she read Latin and Greek and was familiar with the customs of dozens of cultures. Absolutely fearless around animals, she was an excellent horsewoman and had two fearsome mastiffs that followed her like children. After six months, Lady Wylde was unable to imagine life with Diana around.

Wanting the best for her foster daughter, Lady Wylde began making preparations to go to Town shortly before Diana's sixteenth birthday. When Diana discovered that meant she would be "coming out" into Society, she protested that she had no desire to leave the country. Lady Wylde over-rode all of her objections and promised to return within the month if Diana was not enjoying herself.

They arrived in London in April, shortly before the Season began in full swing. Diana did indeed enjoy herself, going riding every morning, to museums or lectures in the afternoon and to the theatre in the evenings. To a lesser extent, Diana enjoyed the balls and parties that she attended. Her dark skin and exotic features made her the centre of attention; and since she was, after all, Lady Silverbridge, daughter of the Earl of Warwick and because her chaperone was the estimable Countess of Warwick, the attention was always gracious and flattering. Despite all the attention, however, Diana found the conversation vapid and uninformed and most of the people silly or self-absorbed. The friends she had made were among those as well-travelled as she and consequently, most of them were much older.

Still, Diana was in no hurry to return to the country, and was now actually looking forward to attending the famous MacArran Masque. By the time the footman handed her into the carriage, Diana knew what sort of costume she would have. _No missish pastel gown for me,_ she decided. _I already stand out, so why not do it in grand style?_

* * *

Sheila O'Brien went upstairs with a lighter step than usual. She actually sang softly as she entered the Viscount Blackmoor's bedchamber and began airing the bedclothes. Her sweet voice made "The Mountains of Mourne" even prettier and lightened her heart further. Although she was initially terrified when the Duke of MacArran arrived, everything had worked our far better than she could have hoped.

She had been certain that Mrs. Middlebar, the housekeeper, would have her put out as soon as His Grace sat down to discuss the staff with the head servants. Although she had been at Kelthorne Hall for six months before Mrs. Middlebar was hired, and although no one could find fault with her work, there was still the inescapable fact that she was--unfortunately--Irish. Even if she had used a different name, there was no hiding her red hair, Kerry-blue eyes, freckles, or lilting accent. That, as far as Mrs. Middlebar was concerned, showed enough lacking in character to send her on her way.

Fortunately, the butler vouched for Sheila's good work and the Duke of MacArran--perhaps recalling that at one time his Scottish ancestors had been similarly treated--did not have her dismissed. In addition to keeping her on, he raised her wages from eight pounds per annum to ten. That meant a whole extra shilling per week. The extra shilling, in turn, meant that she might be able to find better caretakers for her younger brother and perhaps even send him to a dame school.

She knew this wasn't the life her parents had envisioned for them when they left Ireland for fabled London two years before. That life disappeared when the couple was killed by burglars. Orphaned and nearly penniless, Sheila was determined that she and Bobby would not be forced into a workhouse where they would be separated possibly forever. Using what little money she had left, Sheila purchased a new morning dress and apron and ventured into domestic service. She soon learned that if she wanted to secure a position, it was best that any employer know nothing about the younger brother she was struggling to support. She took the first job that became available and found a couple--the Costers--in Covent Garden who were willing to look after Bobby for two shillings a week. While in the employ of the cross and fussy Lady Seaton, Sheila quickly mastered the art of getting her work done without being seen or heard by the family--two qualities which made for a perfect servant.

After a year, Lady Seaton announced that she was retiring to the country and would not be bringing all of the servants with her. To Sheila's everlasting surprise, the disagreeable lady wrote her an excellent letter of recommendation, once that had helped secure her current position. Unfortunately, when Mr. & Mrs. Coster discovered she was now working for a duke, they demanded another five pence per week for Bobby's care. Sheila suspected they drank some of the money, but she met their demand. She didn't have the means to do otherwise.

At least now she had a half day and one evening off each week in addition to her day off each month and she spent all of that time with Bobby. Bobby constantly assured her all was well with the Costers and that he was getting along just fine. Sheila believed him because it was the only way she could force herself to go back to work. After each secret visit with her brother, Sheila would return to Kelthorne and work even harder than before. She was determined to earn enough money to pay for transport back home to Ireland for herself and her brother.

* * *

"Out of my sight, you misbegotten wretch! That's the third bottle you've broken this week!" 

Preston Hatfield hurried out the door of the shop, aided by a shove from Mr. Kell. He glanced back at the ramshackle shop and then began making his way down the street. He decided he had the rest of the afternoon off. Still, he knew he would return that evening to clean the living quarters, cook supper, wash the dishes and do any laundry that needed doing. He was not in the least disturbed by Kell's words or actions--he had, in fact, clumsily dropped _this_ bottle of tonic. The other bottles have been broken by Kell himself after the apothecary had once again sampled too much of his own product. Kell simply blamed his apprentice because it was easy to do.

As he walked down Drury Lane, Preston mused that having someone to blame seemed to be the main reason Kell had an apprentice at all. It certainly wasn't so he had someone to train, for in the five years since he had first been indentured to Kell, anything that Preston had learned about being an apothecary had not been learned from his master.

When he was first apprenticed to Kell at the age of ten, it was a welcome chance to leave the horrible workhouse he had been in since his mother's death. After two years with Kell, Preston began to doubt the man was even an apothecary at all. Kell claimed to be an alchemist as well and was constantly conducting experiments in the back of his shop. After six years, the only thing Preston thought Kell could rightfully be called was a charlatan. His prescriptions to the poor and sick of Covent Garden consisted mainly of gin or the results of a failed alchemy experiment.

 _Still,_ Preston thought, _Things could be alot worse. At least old Kell keeps me fed and clothed._ Neither the food nor the clothes were of the best quality, but they were better than what Preston had seen on the backs of others in Covent Garden. He knew that many masters beat their apprentices regularly and unmercifully. Kell, on the other hand, was usually too drunk and drugged to bother with more than an occasional licking. So Preston went cheerfully through life, trying to learn as much as he could before his seven-year indenture was up so he could hire himself out as a journeyman and earn his own living. In his favour was the fact that he already knew how to read, write and figure--something else which set him apart from his neighbours. His mother had been a governess and had begun teaching him before she died. After her death Preston had continued learning on his own.

As he reached the meeting of Drury Lane and the Strand, he kept a lookout for the boy who worked as a crossing-sweep there. Although Bobby O'Brien was only ten, Preston had befriended the boy because--like himself--Bobby stood out from the other poor people in Covent Garden and was resented because of it. In addition, Bobby had a sister who visited him on Sundays and who was the prettiest and kindest young woman Preston had ever met. 

Preston didn't see Bobby anywhere, so he continued up the Strand to the shop of Mr. Whitman, another apothecary. In exchange for running errands, Mr. Whitman allowed Preston to remain in the shop to listen and learn and occasionally even let him read the big books at the back. Preston began to seriously consider angering Kell everyday--it would give him the chance to advance his education that much faster.

* * *

_Is that mud? Aye, it is._ Bobby O'Brien grimaced with disgust when he felt the cold sludge seeping through the heel of his boot. Lifting his foot slightly, he examined the torn spot and wondered if there was any way he could repair or hide it before Sunday. If his sister saw the tear she would spend money on a newer pair that the Costers would sell again, leaving him with the old pair. The heel was beyond repair, but Bobby thought he might be able to hide it if he could find a piece of black cloth to tie it up with. Sheila wasn't going to spend money on new boots if he could help it. He wanted her to save money so they could go home to Ireland as soon as possible.

Bobby had tried many times to convince Sheila to give him one shilling each week and let him fend for himself, but she refused, saying that she felt better knowing he was being cared for. Bobby didn't dare tell her that he had to look after himself or that he saw none of the money she paid the Costers. If Sheila knew that, she would leave her position to look after him and they would only fall further behind money-wise.

So Bobby did whatever he could to earn a few pence, returning to the Costers' only occasionally to sleep on colder or rainy nights. During the day he was always busy, sweeping mud from the street-crossings for the "quality" so they wouldn't dirty their fancy shoes, holding horses and delivering messages for gentlemen or calling carriages and opening the doors for ladies. He spent as little money as possible on food for himself, and guarded his little stash like a miser, hoping that one day he would have enough to surprise Sheila by making up the difference required to go home.

Today, he witnessed more people than usual heading towards the banks of the Thames. The dry weather meant that he would make little money sweeping, so he decided to join the mudlarks as they scavenged the banks for anything of value. After several minutes, he discovered what all the commotion was about. There had been an almost unheard of _three_ suicides in the Thames the night before and the bodies were being scavenged for valuables. By the time Bobby arrived, the bodies had been picked clean, so all the boy had to show for his trouble were empty pockets and cold, wet feet. 

* * *

Eric Stephen Montgomery, the Marquis of Blackmoor, stifled a sigh as Trevor, his valet, gathered his discarded riding clothes and left his bedchamber. He had managed to avoid his grandfather--by one means or another--for the past two days, but his luck had finally run out. The Duke of MacArran made it quite clear that if Eric did not meet him in the study for luncheon, there would be dire consequences.

That's why Eric was descending the stairs to the study dressed in his best coat and waistcoat and wearing the sternest cravat Trevor could fashion. He had no intention on giving his grandfather any opportunity to call him a dandy or a fop--which is what he had been accused of the last time the two had spoken. He unconsciously tugged at his cuffs to make certain they were straight before walking into the study.

The Duke was waiting for him and gave him a hard look. Eric stopped short and gave a small bow, "Your Grace," he said simply.

"Hmph."

Eric straightened and stood still, unsure what to do next. Finally, MacArran sat down at the luncheon table and motioned for Eric to do the same. "I trust you will be able to take some time from your busy schedule of lazing or lolloping about in order to pay some calls with me this afternoon."

"Of course, sir. I am--as always--at your disposal."

The Duke favoured his grandson with a dark look. Although Eric's words were perfectly polite, his tone was sarcastic--even disdainful. "By rights, you should have paid these calls yourself. Lady Wylde is an old friend and has a new ward who is making her debut this season. The Earl of Masters is another old friend and his heir has just come to live with the Earl and Countess of Ravenwood."

Eric shrugged, "They are your friends, not mine."

"They are friends of this family," MacArran bristled.

"I have friends of my own," Eric said with another shrug. "I have been much occupied with them."

"Oh, I know all about your _friends_ , boy," MacArran glowered. "A load of Bond Street fribble who will flatter and fawn over anyone so long as they can bleed him. If that person moves in Society, so much the better for them. Gull-catchers like that will only lead you to run."

"They'll do no such thing," Eric scowled in return. "You know nothing of the matter."

"Don't I? I know that you no longer attend White's or Brooke's and that you've moved onto some of the gaming hells. How long before one of their Captain Sharpes put you in Dun territory?"

Eric's eyes widened, "How did you--?"

"Have you your own Bird of Paradise, or do your vulgar friends induce you to sample Haymarket wares?"

"How _dare_ you!"

"Does anyone hold your vowels? Have you been too ape-drunk to see me these two days prior?"

"Were you not my grandfather, I would call you out for such insults," Eric seethed.

MacArran chuckled, "By all means, do not let that stop you. Pistols or sabres?"

Eric forced his temper to subside as he recalled that his grandfather was an excellent shot and would easily win any duel. No doubt, the Duke felt that winging him would do no end of good.

"No one holds my vowels, sir," Eric said after a long silence. "I keep no mistress, nor do I sample Haymarket wares," he voice was edged with disgust. "I've been half-sprung tipsy, but never more than that. Does that satisfy you, sir?"

"For the moment," MacArran conceded. "I'll not have any grandson of mine making a cake of himself. While I am in Town, you'll not see any of those freebooters, is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"And while I am here, not a one of them will be allowed at Kelthorne Hall."

"Not one of them of ever _has_ been allowed at Kelthorne Hall, sir," Eric replied.

MacArran stared hard at his grandson, but spoke no more on the subject while luncheon was served.

* * *

"And where were you planning on taking our new lord today?" called a voice.

Hank and Lord Ravenwood both turned towards the stairs where Lady Ravenwood was descending.

"You've had him for two entire days and this whole morning," Lady Ravenwood said. "I demand an equal share of his time."

"I am taking him to Manton's," Ravenwood protested.

"Fustian. Henry, my dear, you wouldn't mind learning to shoot on another day, would you?"

Hank frowned in bewilderment, "I already know how to shoot."

"There!" Lady Ravenwood gave her husband a triumphant look. "He already knows how to shoot. And I'm sure he is a remarkable shot. So, there is no need for Manton's--be off with you!" she commanded with a regal gesture. "Henry belongs to me today."

Chuckling, Ravenwood made her a sweeping bow and left.

"Now, Henry," Lady Ravenwood took Hank's arm and began walking with him back up the stairs. "I'm aware that this afternoon may not be to your liking, but it is something that must be done."

"What am I to do?"

"You are to receive calls with me."

"Is that all?" Hank laughed. "You make it sound like a terrible chore."

"According to my adorable rogue of a husband, it is," she smiled in return. "But it is something that simply _must_ be done. Everyone has been calling these last two days, anxious to met the new Viscount Rayner."

"If you wish me to, then of course I will," Hank said simply.

"You are the dearest boy," Lady Ravenwood gave him a light kiss on the cheek. "Now off you go to change."

"Again?" Hank asked, and heard her laughter as it followed him into his rooms.

As his new valet tied a fresh cravat on him, Hank studied himself in the mirror. He still was used to being so "dressed-up" all the time. In New Hampshire, his clothing consisted of homespun shirts and trouser, with a store-bought suit for Sunday best. The day after his arrival, Lord Ravenwood took him to his tailor and suddenly Hank possessed no end of linen shirts and stocks, silk cravats, waistcoats, cutaway coats, frock coats and boots--with more to come, by the sound of things. His high-cut, tassled Hessians were a source of delight, however, and he saw to it they were always kept polished to a high shine.

Although still homesick for New Hampshire and the people there, his relatives in London were doing much to help him to alleviate any melancholy. Nicknamed "the Rash and Reckless Ravenwoods" by the ton, the couple were as free and easy with affection and laughter as they were with money. Perhaps they _were_ flighty and had no use for serious matters, but they welcomed Hank whole-heartedly and did everything they could to see to his happiness. So, although their careless, feckless way surprised him from time to time, he was more than willing to accept them.

They had even helped him adjust to being the new Viscount Rayner--a fact that hadn't been mentioned in any of their letters. He had yet to meet the current Earl of Masters and after hearing him described a cranky, slightly mad recluse, Hank thought it might be some time before any meeting occurred.

"He never leaves his estates, Henry, my dear," Lady Ravenwood had told him when he asked. "Perhaps we shall be invited for the Christmas Season, but I wouldn't set my heart upon it. Until he does, you'll have to content yourself with Gideon and I making a fuss over you."

As he slipped on a coat of deep blue velvet, Hank decided that was one of the easiest tasks he'd ever been given.

* * *

"The Earl of Ravenwood?" Eric raised an eyebrow as the carriage halted in front of that house. "I didn't know you were well-acquainted with he and his lady."

"I'm not," the Duke replied. "Other than to know he was a devilish rake-helly fellow in his youth, and his lady a complete hoyden in hers."

"People call them 'the Rash and Reckless Ravenwoods.' I never thought to see you pay them a call."

"Nor did I," MacArran admitted. He descended from the brougham and walked up the steps to the door of the townhouse and rapped smartly on it with his walking stick. "However, the Earl of Masters and I went to Oxford together." When the footman opened the door the pair stepped inside and handed the servant their callings cards.

"If your Grace and Your Lordship would wait a moment," the footman said before hurrying up the stairs.

"Masters' heir is staying with Ravenwood. Lady Ravenwood is Masters' niece, you know. I feel it is my duty to meet Viscount Rayner at least once."

"I'm surprised I haven't heard of him before."

"He's from one of the family's cadet branches--quite distant, actually. American, I hear, and only came into his title by complete fluke, from what I've heard."

"American?!" Eric exclaimed in distaste. He had no time to say anything else, however, as the footman returned.

"If you will follow me, my lords, I will show you up."

Removing their tall beaver hats, both men followed the footman up to the first floor. Lady Ravenwood was standing in the centre of the of the drawing room and when she saw the Duke, she extended her hand in greeting. "You do us great honour, Your Grace."

"It is an honour to see you once again, Lady Ravenwood," the Duke replied as he bowed over her hand, kissing it lightly. "Allow me to present my grandson, the Marquis of Blackmoor."

While the Marquis and the Countess exchanged niceties, Hank stood back and observed the visitors. Like himself, the Marquis was dressed in a well-tailored waistcoat and cutaway. Unlike himself, though, the Marquis looked perfectly at ease in his clothing. Still, Hank looked forward to the chance to finally meet someone his own age.

"Please allow me to present the Viscount Rayner," Lady Ravenwood was say. "Henry, this is the Duke of MacArran and the Marquis of Blackmoor."

At the last moment, Hank remembered _not_ to shake hands and bowed instead. "Your Grace. Lord Blackmoor."

"Lord Rayner," both men replied.

"Do sit down," Lady Ravenwood requested on the introductions were completed.

Everyone sat and the Duke turned keen black eyes on Hank. "I understand you are but recently come from America, Lord Rayner."

"Yes, sir. I arrived only two days ago," came the polite reply.

"And how do you find London so far?"

"Noisy," Hank said before he thought.

The Duke frowned, but Lady Ravenwood stifled a smile and Eric looked at the "colonist" with new interest.

Hank cleared his throat uncomfortably under the Duke's glare. "That is...it is very different from New Hampshire."

"And that's where you lived before this."

"Yes, sir. I was born and raised there."

Eric caught a look from his grandfather that was a command to make polite small talk with the Viscount. "Do you ride?" he asked Hank directly.

"Not since I came to England. I used to, though, as often as I could."

"Will you be getting your own mount or will you be jobbing it?"

It was on the tip of Hank's tongue to ask what _jobbing_ was, but instead he replied. "I suppose Lord and Lady Ravenwood will decide that."

"Nonsense, my dear boy," came Lady Ravenwood's voice. "If you enjoy riding, then by all means you should have a horse of your own. Purchase yourself a matched pair as well, if you enjoy driving. Really, I'm surprised Ravenwood didn't think of it before."

Hank sat for several minutes in stunned silence. Lady Ravenwood spoke of purchasing horses in the same way his aunt would speak of buying buttons.

"Decide whether you want a curricle or a phaeton, Hank, dear, and I will have Ravenwood make a visit to our carriage-makers."

"Ma'am, I'm not sure that's necessary," Hank said uncomfortably.

"Have you never driven a curricle before? They are all the crack right now. I just got mine last week." A startled look from the Duke reminded Eric that the old man was not aware of that purchase. Before his grandfather could remark, Eric said to Hank-- "Tattersall's has one of their best sales coming 'round this Thursday. You should go to that if you want a good mount."

"Actually, Lord Ravenwood has to go out of Town tomorrow," Hank explained. "So I hadn't made any such plans."

"I can take you to Tattersall's, if you like," Eric offered.

"There's a fair promise for you, Henry," Lady Ravenwood smile. "Lord Blackmoor is reckoned to be a fine judge of horses."

Eric gave her his first genuine smile of the day. "Thank you, my lady. It is very kind of you to say so." He turned to Hank questioningly.

"Thank you, Lord Blackmoor," Hank nodded in acceptance. "I appreciate the offer."  


*******

  


Eric was relieved that the home of Lady Wylde wasn't a great distance from that of Count Ravenwood. This way the lecture from his grandfather concerning his newly-purchased curricle wouldn't be able to run on too long. The Duke surprised him, though, when they were seated in their brougham again. "That was well done."

Eric blinked, "Thank you, sir."

"I admit to being surprised."

"He seems somewhat more tolerable than I thought Americans would be," Eric replied simply.

"I hope you do as well when meeting Lady Wylde's ward."

"If she's made her debut--as you say--why have I never seen her?" Eric frowned.

"I hear she's a remarkably clever thing. Perhaps she moves in different circles," MacArran said, and his tone implied what he thought of Eric's "circles."

Rather than dwelling unhappily on his grandfather's disapproval, Eric chose to dwell unhappily on the prospect of meeting a young lady who was no doubt a bluestocking. _Lady Wylde and the old fellow are great friends, so this will likely be a long visit. Fine for them, but I'll be forced to bandy words with some drab little squab of a female who is totally lacking in conversation. Or worse, she may be a missish reformer who lectures on everything!_

So with these depressing thoughts, Eric followed his grandfather into the house where they were immediately admitted into the drawing room. He paid little attention to the "my dear MacArran!" and "my dear Lady Wylde!" and smiled politely when Lady Wylde remarked how handsome he had grown. Then, because he could avoid it no longer, he turned towards the bluestocking for an introduction.

Only a lifetime of social training kept his jaw from dropping as the drab little squab turned out to be the most exotically beautiful young women he'd ever seen. She was dressed in the first stare of fashion, wearing a pale yellow gown that set off her dark skin to great advantage. Her thick black curls were swept up fashionably and tied with golden ribbons. Her eyes were dark and sparkled with great intelligence and humour.

"It is a great pleasure to meet you, Lord Blackmoor," the vision curtsied gracefully.

"I assure you, Lady Silverbridge, the pleasure is all mine," Eric replied with a bow.

As they sat down, Eric needed no prompting from his grandfather to begin a conversation with the young lady. "Have you been in London long?"

"Since May," Diana replied.

"How strange that we've not met before this," Eric said. "For I'm certain I would have remembered it."

"So am I," Diana laughed. "For I do tend to stand out."

"And with good reason, my lady," Eric said, in such a way that it could only be taken as the warmest of compliments. "Do you attend many balls?"

"I did when I first arrived, but as of late, I have been attending them less frequently."

"May one ask why?"

"They've become exceedingly tiresome, I find. There's little that changes from one to another. I've found the last few I've attended dreadfully dull."

"You suffer from _ennui_ , then?" Eric asked in surprise.

"Only at balls, apparently," Diana dark eyes twinkled.

"I hope your dislike of balls will not prevent you from attending our masquerade," Eric smiled, knowing his grandfather would surely be inviting both women.

"Indeed it won't," Diana's expression brightened. "I have already planned my costume."

"I look forward to seeing it. And, Lady Silverbridge, should you and Lady Wylde ever require male accompaniment to any event, I am at your service."

"That is very good of you, sir, but I would have to better your acquaintance before I accepted."

"Of course, but I'm certain Lady Wylde can vouch for my character as an honorable gentleman."

"I'm glad to hear it," Diana looked demure, but lips twitched with suppressed laughter. "But I would have to determine for myself that--unlike balls--you would become neither tiresome nor dreadfully dull."

* * *

"Faith, an' ther right corky brogans, Preston. How did y'come by 'em?"

"Would you believe old Kell conjured them?" Preston grinned.

"Nay," Bobby laughed. "Not tha' old cawker."

"Would you believe _I_ conjured them?"

Bobby stopped admiring the boots--which were scuffed and two sizes too large--to stare at Preston specutively. "Yer cuttin' shams, you are!" he finally said. "If y'could conjure, you'd no be 'dentured to old Kell."

"True enough," Preston's grin turned into a wry smile. "They were mine, Bobby. Kell had a fit of kindness and bought me a new pair." He didn't mention that Kell's kindness had been induced by gin or that his "new" boots weren't much newer than Bobby's. "These were getting too tight for me, and I know you were worried about what Sheila might say when she saw your ruined pair."

"Bedad, Preston! _I_ wasn't worried," Bobby clarified. "I just didn't want _Sheila_ t'be worryin' herself."

"I see," Preston replied, trying to remain sober. "Well, if you didn't go mudlarking in the Thames, your boots would last longer."

"Don't I know it, though," Bobby sighed. "An' t'be sure I've no love f'r strippin' bodies, but when there's no blunt t'be had at the crossings, what else am I t'be after doin'?" He looked down at his feet again. "But I'll no be wearin' yer brogans on the Thames, if y'don't wants me to."

"They're your boots now, Bobby," Preston assured him. "Do what you like with them."

"Ah, faith but yer a right flaughholoch cove, Preston."

Preston smiled, although he wasn't entirely sure what Bobby just called him. The boy's speech was a strange mixture of his native Irish, Covent Garden gutter slang and the more refined English his sister was trying to teach him. More often than not, Preston had no idea what Bobby was saying.

"I'm after meetin' Sheila at th'Drury Lane Theatre. D'you want t'come for a wee visit?"

"You don't think Sheila would mind?"

"Faith, an' why would she? Bedad if she doesn't think yer a regular out'n'outter. C'mon with me, then."

"You're leaving now?"

"Aye, 'tis best I'm early," Bobby laughed. "Faith, if I'm but a moment late, Sheila will be afeared I got meself murdered."

Both boys laughed as though this was a ridiculous notion, but both were also well aware that it was a very real possibility. Life was cheap in Covent Garden.

* * *

Sheila walked the entire way from Park Lane to Covent Garden with a quick step and her head down. She didn't stop walking when men called or approached her. She knew that even the slightest eye contact would be taken as an invitation for a quick romp in the alley.

Only when she approached the Drury Lane Theatre did she raise her head, seeking out a little blond ragamuffin. She smiled when she saw him, but then frowned when she saw how torn and dirty he was. Oh, what she would give to see him as well-dressed as the grand Marquis Blackmoor.

Then her smile returned of its own volition as Bobby ran towards her. However cruel life might be in Covent Garden, it hadn't had any effect on her brother's spirits or energy. She caught him in a warm embrace. "How are you, acushla?"

Bobby squirmed uncomfortably and Sheila saw that Preston had accompanied him. She gave Bobby a quick kiss, embarrassing him still further and then released him to smile at Presto in greeting.

"Bobby asked me if I wanted to come along," Preston explained, almost apologetically. "I hope you don't mind."

"Faith, and why would I?" Sheila asked. "I'm always happy to see you, Preston." She drew both of them down on the steps--one on each side of her. "I've brought a surprise for Bobby, but thankfully there's enough to go around for all."

Preston protested as Sheila lifted a cloth sack onto her lap and began to unlace the fastenings. Bobby fingered the bag's embroidery with reverence. "'Twas Ma's," he whispered.

"Aye, Bobby," Sheila replied softly. Then in a more cheerful tone-- "You'd not believe the doings at the Hall these past days. I'll tell you this one first and we can enjoy it while I tell you the other." Both boys were looking at her expectantly, so she continued. "The first thing this morning, two of the best kitchenmaid up and left, leaving Cook with only one. Now Cook didna want the scullery maids to replace them, for the pastry chef was coming in today and she wanted everything just so. She asked if any of the housemaids would help, but they turned up their noses at kitchen work. Cook was in _such_ a frazzle, so I flew about and did my work and then went down to the kitchen. Faith, I thought the old woman would kiss me when I asked if she needed help, she was that grateful. I helped Cook and the chef prepare all sorts of sweetmeats and pastries for the grand ball. His Grace was to be sampling them and choosin' those he wanted. But the chef is notoriously picksome and if things look even a wee bit lopsided, he begins again. When things were finally done to his liking, he left and Cook said I could take as much as I liked of the left-outs." As Sheila finished her story, she opened the sack to reveal and assortment pastries and sweets fit to tempt the nobility.

"Blessed St. Patrick," Bobby breathed, then asked eagerly-- "Can we be havin' them right now?"

"Aye, Bobby," Sheila laughed. "I thought they'd likely be eaten all at once." Once Bobby had a lapful of treats, she held out the sack to Preston. "Have some, lad," she prompted when she hesitated. "For there's more than enough to go 'round."

Preston chose a pastry coated with crusty sugar, "Thank you, Sheila."

"What's the other good thing you'll be after tellin' us?" Bobby asked around a mouthful of strawberry tart.

"His Grace has seen fit to raise my wages--a whole shilling each week. Bobby, keep your mouth closed when you've food in it--there's a good lad."

Bobby immediately chewed and swallowed. "Mary, Joseph and--"

"Bobby!" Sheila exclaimed sternly.

"No swearing. Aye, Sheila, I know it. But a whole 'nuther shilling a week! Faith an' we'll be goin' home before Michaelmas."

Preston stopped enjoying his treat at the idea of his friends leaving so soon.

"Not by Michaelmas, acushla. Perhaps after Christmas or Twelfth Night, though." Sheila was silent for several minutes. "I've been turning it over carefully and rather than go home early and have nothin' to our names when we get there, we could wait until the spring when the travelling is easier and I have a fair bit more saved."

"Another winter here?" Bobby looked mournful.

"I'll see you're kept comfortable," Sheila promised. "And I needn't be after worryin' so much for you when you have such a true friend as Preston. Did you thank him proper for your brogans?"

Preston flushed with embarrassment while Bobby's jaw dropped. "Sure an' Da had the right of it! Yer a seelie, you are!"

Sheila started laughing. "I'm no such thing, Bobby."

"But how did you know?" Preston asked.

"I saw that Bobby had different boots on and when I looked harder, I saw they were the same brogans you wore when I last saw you. What will you have for them?"

"Nothing!" Preston declared indignantly.

"Not even another trifle?" Sheila teased, holding one out.

"Well...I suppose," Preston laughed. "Thank you."

"My thanks to you, Preston, for watching over my laddie," Sheila replied quietly, making Preston redden again. "And now, sad though I am to say it, I must start back to the Hall," she sighed, handing the bag to Bobby. "Enjoy them, lads."

"You'll no walk all the way back to the Hall alone!" Bobby protested.

"Faith, and how else am I to be getting there, my lad?"

"Not alone, you'll not. Preston and meself will be settin' you as far as Park Lane."

"Oh, is that a fact, now?"

"Aye," Bobby stood up. After a moment, Preston stood as well.

"Sure, and how often does a girl have the chance to walk out with _two_ fine gentlemen such as yourselves?" Sheila grinned as she linked arms with both of them. "Very well, then, my lords. I accept your kind offer."

Laughing, the trio set off down Drury Lane.

* * *

From beneath the brim of a stylish beaver tophat, narrowed eyes observed the trio that chattered happily as they walked. Fingers clenched and unclenched beneath the folds of a voluminous black greatcoat as though anxious to be at work.

Although he preferred to choose orphans or outcasts as his portraits, he was seriously considering an exception. How pleasing it would be to deal with a portrait that possessed both spirit and intelligence. Many of the models he'd been forced to use lately had been sad and lifeless even before he'd killed them.

He knew that he would have to move slowly to obtain this model, but he was just as certain that it would be well worth the wait.

* * *

"There you are, Rayner," Lord Blackmoor nodded toward a grey Arabian mare that was being walked past by a groom. "There's a prime bit of blood for you."

"She is a fine one, isn't she?" Hank agreed, although he remained noncommittal. He acknowledged that Eric was a very fine judge of horseflesh the moment he saw the pair of matched blacks pulling the Marquis' curricle. They were both fine steppers and were identically matched, right down to the white stocking on their forelegs and the white blazes on their noses.

"I daresay this would be a good deal easier if one knew what you were looking for, Rayner."

"Hank."

"I beg your pardon."

"Hank. Call me Hank."

"A hank of what?"

Hank looked at him quizzically. "Just Hank. It's my name. It's short for Henry."

Eric arched an aristocratic eyebrow. "Very well, then why don't you call me Eric?" he said, then got back to the subject at hand. "Do you want a hunter, a racer or just a hack?"

Hank frowned. "I don't think I'd care to travel about London on something called a--"

Eric glanced at him as he broke off so suddenly and found that the young Viscount was totally absorbed in the sight of a large palomino stallion. _A fine looking animal,_ Eric decided, even though it was hardly one he would ever purchase.

"That one," Hank said decidedly, nodding towards the palomino.

Eric stared at him in amazement. "Are you daft?"

"Why? What's the matter with him?"

"Nothing to look at him, I grant you," Eric admitted. "But look at the man leading him--that horse is American-bred," his tone suggested the horse may as well have worms.

"So am I," Hank said simply.

Eric winced, feeling more ashamed of himself than if Hank had become angry. "I beg pardon," he said, his manners coming to the fore. "That was insufferably rude."

Hank merely smiled and shrugged. "How do I let them know I want that horse?"

"Best check and make certain he's sound first," Eric raised his arm to catch the handler's attention.

Hank felt a moment's panic. Back home, his uncle had been teaching him about horses some, but on a farm, pleasure horses were hardly top priority. He felt certain he would appear inept. His uncle had only purchased plow horses. "Could you?" he requested. "I trust your judgement."

"Certainly," Eric replied, extremely flattered. As Hank took the bridle from the handler and held the horse's head, Eric ran his hands over the animal, checking for deflects or flaws. At length, he stood and slapped the horse lightly on the neck. "He's quite sound and in excellent condition, but I daresay he'll be quite a handful."

"Of course he will," Hank grinned. "He's American-bred, after all."

The handler, hearing Hank's accent, realized he was a fellow American and began laughing.

"What do I do if I'm going to buy him?" Hank turned back to Eric, still smiling.

"You can use our tents," Eric said as though he hadn't heard Hank's earlier remark or the handler's laughter. "Bring him to the MacArran tents," Eric said to the man. "One of my men is prepared to take charge of Viscount Rayner's acquisitions."

"Yes, sir," the handler nodded, leading the stallion away.

"Thank you, Eric. But how do we pay? You didn't even ask how much they wanted for him."

"Please give me your word that you don't intend to stoop so low as to haggle like a common fishwife. If you do, I wash my hands of you entirely. There's absolutely no need."

"There isn't?"

"Granted, if they try to bleed us, then a firm offer is necessary, but I hardly think you need worry about such things."

"How would you know?" Hank frowned.

"I know that the Earl of Masters would hardly allow his only heir to go about purse-pinched," Eric replied matter-of-factly. "Didn't Lord Ravenwood leave you anything from Masters?"

"Yes...several notes and what he called bills of exchange."

"I hope you had the presence of mind to bring one of the bills with you."

"Yes, I--"

"I don't need to see it," Eric held up a hand to stop Hank's search. "We'll simply sign it over when we've finished and Masters will take care of the rest. Are you done here?"

Hank hesitated, "If you would help me choose a matched pain as fine as yours...I'd appreciate it."

Eric grinned, a true rarity for him. "Plan to set up a carriage, do you?"

"Since Lord and Lady Ravenwood both think its necessary that I have a rig of some sort, I decided when I first saw a curricle that it was the rig from me."

"It sounds as though you've already purchased one."

"Lord Ravenwood took me to the carriage-makers the day after your visit. It may even be ready today."

Eric chuckled, "Then we ought to get you your matched pair as soon as may be. What colour?"

Hank started laughing. "I don't see how that could make a difference."

"You must have some preferences."

Hank considered this for several moments.

"What colour is your curricle?" Eric prompted.

"Dark blue, or midnight blue, as the carriage-maker calls it. Maybe white horses?"

"A blue carriage with white horses? You'll make everyone of the Fancy sick with envy. I'll warn you, though, matching whites are the most difficult to find."

"They don't _have_ to be white. Just as long as they're fast."

"Excellent decision," Eric agreed with another grin.

* * *

Diana surveyed herself critically as her maid applied the last few touches to her hair. Both she and Lady Wylde agreed that the pastels which were all the fashion did little to enhance Diana's dark colouring. So, as was their habit, both women simply ignored fashion. Diana was certain that no pale colour could have suited her so well as the deep amber silk she was wearing this evening.

The recent style for a tight-fitting bodice and bare shoulders was far less of a concern for Diana than for other young ladies of the ton. Her slender figure needed almost no lacing to acquire the 18-inch waist that fashion demanded. Her dark shoulders rose from the bodice's frothy trimming in a most flattering manner and only a thin amber ribbon broke the graceful line or her neck.

She turned her head to study the flowers Hortense had placed in her upswept curls. She didn't care for roses any more than she did for pastels and wore them just as rarely. When she discovered a new breed of narcissus being developed from an American wildflower, she loved it at first sight. Whenever she could, she wore these "tiger lilies," although such outrageous floral decorations were frowned upon by many older ladies in the ton.

 _Enough!_ Diana thought sternly when she realized she was adjusting yet another curl. _One would think you were one of those simpering misses out to snare a titled husband. It's only a dinner party_. She adjusted the curl and fussed with her gown's trim. _Of course, it's a dinner party attended by a Duke, a Countess, a Marquis and a Viscount._

She was as curious as the other women in Society about the new Viscount Rayner who had yet to attend any major function. That he was reported to be very handsome, American and the owner of a new curricle drawn by a pair of beautiful matched greys only increased talk about him.

Of course, she was not dressing for this new Viscount, Diana told herself. Nor was she dressing for the Marquis of Blackmoor, no matter how much she had enjoyed meeting him. _He is rather high in the instep, but I suppose that's to be expected when one is to inherit a duchy. He could likely see past his haughty ways if given the chance. It might even be possible to teach him, should I ever--_

Diana's eyes flew open. _What is wrong with you? You've met the man once!_ She shook her head, then looked at her maid. "Merci, Hortense. C'est tout."

"Oui, Mademoiselle," Hortense made a quick curtsey and left the room.

Diana rose from her dressing table, smoothed her skirt one last time and then left her chambers for the drawing room below.

She only had time for a few words with Lady Wylde before a footman entered to announce the Duke of MacArran and the Marquis of Blackmoor. Much to Diana's surprise, Blackmoor offered no flowery speeches about her beauty or compared her to a dazzling sunset as would most other young bloods of the ton. He didn't have to say anything--the frank admiration in his dark eyes as he bowed over her hand was a higher compliment than the most flattering sonnet.

"I am so glad you could join us, Lord Blackmoor."

"As am I, Lady Silverbridge," Eric replied.

He was still holding her hand when she began moving towards a settee and very happily allowed himself to be led. They sat down and Diana leaned forward slightly. "I understand you've met the mysterious new Viscount Rayner. Do tell me about him."

Eric's good mood all but disappeared at her words. "He's a good enough sort--for a Colonial."

Diana laughed. "Come now, Lord Blackmoor. America has not been a colony for some time. Is it true he set himself up with the most wonderful set of greys?"

"True indeed. I chose them for him," Eric felt it was important that the lady know that.

"Did you?" Diana's eyes widened.

"Yes, he asked my advice. I just hope he isn't cow-handed. I'd hate to see such beautiful steppers turned into bone-setters because of a bad driver."

Diana was silent and she looked intently at Eric. The Marquis wasn't sure whether he felt flattered or uncomfortable with her scrutiny. Finally, she spoke--"May I ask you a somewhat personal question, Lord Blackmoor?"

"Anything you wish, my lady."

"Why did you help Viscount Rayner choose such a fine pair if you dislike him so?"

Eric as at a complete loss for words in the face of such a straight-forward question. Apparently, the differences between Lady Silverbridge and other Society misses went beyond mere appearance. He couldn't think of any other young lady who would be concerned with such a question or would have dared to ask it. He was saved from having to explain himself, however, when the footman announced the Countess of Ravenwood and Viscount Rayner.

Diana excused herself and went to join Lady Wylde in welcoming the newcomers. Eric rose, but did not move forward, choosing instead to remain where he was and observe the introductions. He admitted reluctantly that the Viscount cut a dashing figure in his evening clothes and it was obvious from Diana's warm smile that she thought so as well. 

When Hank turned from the Duke to greet him, Eric was surprised to see Hank's polite smile widen in recognition. Eric managed a slight smile in return. "Rayner."

Hank blinked in momentary confusion. "Eric," he replied with some hesitation. "It's good to see you again."

Diana glanced from one man to another. The new Viscount had used the Marquis' Christian name--something very rare amongst members of the nobility, and done only among close friends.

Eric smiled involuntary, unable to be angry at the American simply because he had gained the lady's admiration. "And you, Hank. I've been hearing all about your matched greys, so there's no need to inquire after them, but how do you find the mount you purchased?"

Hank laughed, "My Celestial Knight is by far the fastest horse I've ever seen, let alone ridden."

"Celestial Knight? What a fanciful name," Diana commented, having never expected an American to come up with such a name.

"I thought so," Hank laughed. "I wanted to name him Lightning or Sun Dancer, because he was so fast, but Lady Ravenwood thought them too ordinary. She said his colouring reminded her of a celestial being, and I tacked on 'Knight.' She was very pleased with it, so I decided to keep it."

"To please Lady Ravenwood?" Eric arched an eyebrow.

"It seemed like a small thing to do after their kindness to me."

Diana shot him an admiring glance.

Eric couldn't help feeling a little nettled. "Fastest animal you've ever seen, you say? But then you've never seen my Chevalier run, have you?"

Hank immediately rose to the challenge. "If you are suggesting a race, all you have to do is name the place and time."

"My lords," Diana spoke up. "If you are to have a race, there is one thing I absolutely must insist upon."

"And what is that, Lady Silverbridge?" Eric smiled, assuming she was concerned with their safety.

"That I be allowed to ride my horse--Stargazer--in the race as well."

Hank's smile widened while Eric's disappeared completely.

"Well?"

"By all means, Lady Silverbridge," Hank agreed.

"Are you daft?" Eric was aghast.

Before anymore could be said on the subject, however, a footman appeared with the announcement: "Dinner is served."

Even though they were a small dinner party, Society's rules immediately came into play. As the highest ranking man in the room, the Duke of MacArran offered their hostess his arm. Eric, being of the next highest rank, was duty-bound to take the Countess of Ravenwood down to dinner. Normally the situation wouldn't have bothered Eric in the least, but tonight it meant that Hank would be escorting Lady Silverbridge to dinner.

No doubt Rayner's acceptance of her offer to race made him quite splendid in Lady Silverbridge's eyes.

* * *

"Best start looking for the extra help now, Greeves. His Grace will want everyone well-trained before the Masque."

Sheila paused outside the quarters of the butler, George Houghton, when she heard that odd statement. 

"Yes, sir," Greeves was agreeing.

"Ask amongst the staff first, as always. That generally stands us in good stead."

"I will, sir." Greeves nearly bumped into Sheila on his way out of the room.

Mustering her courage, Sheila knocked softly on the half-opened door.

"Enter."

Sheila stepped inside. "Beg pardon, Mr. Houghton, but I heard you tellin' Greeves that we were t'be needin' extra help for the grand ball."

"Yes. Do you know of anyone?"

"Aye, sir. One, mayhap two, boys who could serve as pages."

"Pages do tend to be difficult to hire. Are they good workers? Fast-to-learn?"

"Aye, sir, to both questions."

Houghton nodded. "Have them here first thing tomorrow morning."

"Aye, sir," Sheila smiled, bobbing a quick curtsey for good measure. "Thank you, sir."

Houghton waved her on, obviously having other things to attend to.

Sheila was tempted to perform a triumphant reel right there in the hallway, but managed to restrain herself. Instead, she began to hum "The Washerwoman" softly as she returned to her duties. She wanted to finish as soon as she could, so that she could get to Covent Garden while Bobby was still awake.

* * *

Eric was relieved that the subject of horse-racing did not come up again during the excellent eight-course meal set forth by Lady Wylde's staff. He knew that by the time they adjourned to the drawing room for tea and port, the subject would be forgotten. He had not expected the lovely Lady Silverbridge to suggest something even more shocking. Only one reply was possible and Eric tried his best to sound properly outraged--

"My dear Lady Silverbridge, I daresay you have quite lost your wits."

"Have I?" Diana chuckled. "Then so had half the ton, for I hear it is quite the rage right now."

"Many young men look upon it as a new sport, I grant you, but no young lady--"

"Have you ever gone?" Diana asked.

"Certainly not," Eric replied.

"And you, Lord Rayner?" Diana turned to Hank. "But then I don't suppose you've been in London long enough."

"That, and I really don't see the point of it," Hank replied with disarming honesty.

"But aren't you curious to know if the tales of the East End and St. Giles are true?"

Hank shrugged. "I've known people back in America who had fallen on hard times. Sometimes all they had to eat was what little game they could catch."

Eric and Diana could only stare at him in surprised silence--neither of them had ever had any experience with people below the nobility or gentry. Finally, Diana spoke, "But there is no game in London. What do you suppose they live on?"

Hank frowned and looked at Eric questioningly.

"They live on anything they can acquire," Eric said repressively. "Why do you take such an interest in it, Lady Silverbridge?"

"I have no notion," Diana admitted. "Except to say that I find it truly fascinating. Only think what one might see."

"Very little from one's carriage windows, I would imagine," Eric replied dryly. "Young men might think it entertaining to drive through St. Giles or the East End while they're foxed, but I'll wager none of them have ever been befogged enough as to actually step out into the slums."

"And so what harm could come if we stayed in the carriage?"

"Never say you're contemplating a tour of the stews," Eric was horrified.

"Actually, I thought one of you gentlemen would be so kind as to take me," Diana flashed her most charming smile.

"Out of the question," Eric said firmly.

Diana turned to Hank.

"I don't think it would be a very good idea."

Diana let out a disappointed sigh. "Very well. I though it would be more enjoyable with company, but I resigned to touring alone if I must."

"Alone?!" Eric exclaimed. "You cannot do that!"

"It appears I must."

"I agree with Eric, Lady Silverbridge," Hank said after a moment's silence. "If you're bound to go, then I'll go with you. If these places are as bad as you say, I wouldn't feel right knowing you've travelling through them alone."

"How noble of you, Lord Rayner," Diana inclined her head gracefully in Hank's direction. "I vow, I do not know how to thank you for your kindness."

Eric was grinding his teeth in frustration. "Devil take it, Hank, what do you know about driving through the stews?"

"As much as you, probably," Hank returned. "You said you'd never gone before."

"Of course I've never specifically gone touring, but at least I've--" Eric sighed, "Bloody hell. I'll arrange to take both of you in the MacArran carriage, then."

"Tonight?" Diana asked hopefully.

"Very well, Lady Silverbridge, if nothing else will please you," Eric sounded resigned.

"I am very relieved to hear you say that, my lord," Diana grinned. "I vow, for a moment I was afraid you would turn out to be a crashing bore after all."

* * *

Despite rushing through her duties, night had fallen by the time Sheila reached Covent Garden. She was determined that Bobby and Preston report to Kelthorne Hall for the posts as pages. If Bobby proved himself a good worker, there might even be a chance that he would be hired at Kelthorne permanently.

She paused momentarily on the street when she reach Drury Lane to allow all the lords and ladies who were leaving the theatre to walk to their carriages uninterrupted. Sheila watched the processions with wide eyes. She knew she would never wear silk dresses or ostrich plumes in her hair, and that Bobby would never own black Hessian boots or a beaver hat, but a lass could dream, couldn't she?

Sheila pulled her coarse woolen shawl more securely around her shoulder as she began walking again. Society could have their satins and furs, she soon decided, she would be completely content if Bobby were employed at Kelthorne Hall with her. At least the, she would no longer have to worry about whether he was eating well or what he did with his days.

The Costers' lodging, when she finally reached it, looked even more grimy and ramshackle than she remembered. More determined then ever to get Bobby out of Covent Garden, Sheila stepped up and knocked sharply on the door. No one answered, even though she could hear voices within. Boldly, she opened the door and stepped inside.

The single-room dwelling was filthy, and there was no sign of her brother. The only occupants were the man and woman sitting at a table in the middle of the room with a bottle between them. Sheila felt a sudden rush of anger. Where was the food she was paying for? Where was the fire in the hearth? Most importantly, _where was her brother_? 

It obviously took the couple several moments to recognize her, but finally Coster staggered to his feet. "Thair's our pretty little Paddy," he smiled, revealing several missing teeth. 

"Didja bring the week's rent, gel?" Mrs. Coster demanded.

"Certainly not," Sheila replied, her eyes shooting daggers at the drunken woman. "I've come to speak to my brother. Where is he?"

"Don't put on any o'your grand airs 'ere, y'little Paddy tart," Mrs. Coster squawked. "Y'ain't payin' us enough t'go huntin' the brat h'every night."

Mr. Coster added-- "But fer a little h'extry blunt, I'll find the little Mick fer ye."

Sheila grimaced as the stench of stale gin rolled off both Costers in waves. "Blessed St. Patrick! I cannot believe I trusted me own brother to the likes of you! I'd neva hand the dog of me worst enemy to such as yourselves!"

"Cor! Ain't we the bold one!" Mrs. Coster exclaimed. "Who're y'liftin' yer skirt fer t'make y'think ye can talk t'us li'that, Paddy?"

Sheila was incensed. "You foul creature! May wild dogs devour the both of you, and may those dogs be eaten by the devil himself!"

"None of your curses here, you Irish witch!" Mrs. Coster stood up.

"Six loads of graveyard dirt upon the both of you!" Sheila returned before storming out of the room and slamming the door behind her. Once outside, her anger left her, replaced by panic. _Bobby out alone on the streets? Dear St. Patrick, where could he be?_ She realized there was on person who might know and set off to find him, running as fast as she could.

* * *

"Bloody hell," Eric swore softly as the MacArran coach rolled to a halt outside of Lady Wylde's townhouse. "She must be the most bloody-minded female I've ever had the misfortune to meet."

"Then why did you agree to this?" Hank asked before peering out the coach window.

"Devil take it, what else was I supposed to do? She was determined to go, and God knows, if she had gone alone..." Eric gritted his teeth as he looked out the window as well. "I wouldn't put it past her to get out of the coach and _walk_ through the street in order to get a better look."

"I said I would accompany her," Hank pointed out.

"That is not reassuring."

"What does _that_ mean?"

The angry note in Hank's voice made Eric turn towards him. "I meant no insult, I assure you. I was merely stating a fact."

"I see," Hank replied stiffly.

Eric sighed, his new friend was growing more indignant by the moment. Without pausing to consider why he was bothering to explain himself to an _American_ , Eric said--"My coachman also fulfills the duties of a bodyguard. He deals with any highwaymen or riff-raff my coach may encounter on the roads from MacArran Castle in Scotland to London."

"Oh," Hank finally said after a long pause.

"I'm certain Tam can deal with creatures of the gutters equally well. What's more, I trust im completely to remain silent about tonight's little adventure and Lady Silverbridge's involvement."

"He wouldn't even tell your grandfather?" Hank asked skeptically.

"Why would he? The Duke doesn't pay Tam's wages--I do."

"Your own coachman?" Hank sounded suitably impressed.

Before Eric could comment on Hank's ignorance of the ways of Society, he caught sight of a cloaked figure in the fog.

"And there's the lady herself," Hank commented only seconds after Eric had noticed the cloak.

There was a soft rap on the coach door, and Eric opened it. Before either young men could assist her, Diana climbed nimbly into the coach and sat down in the seat Eric vacated as he moved to sit next to Hank. The lack of light in the coach's interior did nothing to hide the sparkle of excitement in her eyes. "I am very happy that you kept you bargain, Lord Blackmoor."

"Did you think I would not keep my word, Lady Silverbridge?" Eric inquired. "You wound me."

"I vow, I did not mean to call your honour into question, my lord," Diana laughed. "But you did agree rather reluctantly."

"Because it's the most ridiculous notion I've heard."

"Oh, I find that difficult to believe," Diana sounded amused.

Eric sighed. "Let's get this damned nonsense over with, shall we?" He opened the small window that allowed him to speak to the driver. "To the East End, Tam. As we discussed earlier."

"Aye, m'lord," replied a rich Scottish burr. "'Tis a right bit of poor judgement if you ask me."

"I couldn't agree more, Tam," Eric said dryly. "Take us, anyway."

"Aye, m'lord."

* * *

Preston rolled over and burrowed his head under the ragbag that served as his pillow. When that didn't block out the insistent tapping, he sighed and got up from his straw tick and crossed the small basement room that Kells had provided him to sleep in. He didn't mind the low quarters at all, as the wall where his bed was right next to the kitchen stove and he managed to keep warm even on the coldest nights. The single street-level window meant that this room was less drafty than the rest of the house. At the moment, it was that lonely window which was the source for the irritating tapping.

Preston stood on an empty crate and unlatched the window. Coated as it was with years of grime, the glass was impossible to see outside. The rusty hinges resisted for a few seconds, the with a nerve-scraping groan, allowed Preston to pull the window open.

When he finally looked outside, he nearly fell of his crate in surprise. "Sheila!"

"Faith, but I'm truly sorry for this, Preston," Sheila whispered. "But I'm terrible feared for Bobby."

"Bobby?" Preston glanced over his shoulder.

"What?" Came a drowsy voice.

Sheila's eyes widened. "He's in there?"

"Yes, he didn't want to got to the Costers' house."

"Blessed St. Patrick," Sheila breathed.

"Is that you, Sheila?" Bobby sounded more alert now.

"Aye, Bobby. I'm after wanting to talk to you--both of you."

"We'll be out right away," Preston said before his closed the window.

Sheila settled herself on the steps that led down from the street to the kitchen door. Preston and Bobby emerged from the door almost immediately.

Bobby scrambled up the steps to sit next to his sister. "Faith, and what's happened, Sheila? Are ye well?"

"Aye, Bobby," Sheila assured him. "Well enough, considering I was scared half out of my wits when you were nowhere t'be found tonight."

"Th'Costers were drunk as lords tonight," Bobby explained. "Old man Coster was in a right foul temper, he was, and I didna was t'be anywhere near 'im. Preston said I could share his room. What're y'doin' lookin' fer me at such an hour?"

Rather than answering Bobby, Sheila turned to the young apprentice. "My thanks again t'ye, Preston. Ye've been taking far better care of my laddie than I have."

"That's not true!" Preston argued immediately.

"Ah, but 'tis. Bobby, me lad, you'll go to the Costers no more."

Bobby squirmed uncomfortably. "Truth t'tell, Sheila, I've no been there for some time. Ye'll not be payin' them anymore, will ye?"

"Not a sixpence," Sheila's expression was resolute. "I'll be after finding you another place to board."

Bobby scowled. "There's no need fer that. I c'n look after meself well enough."

"Nay , acushla, not while I'm breathing," Sheila frowned. "But that t'isn't here nor that. I've come t'tell you to be sure to be at Kelthorne at first light tomorrow--and Preston too, if he likes."

"Kelthorne Hall? Faith, whatever for?"

"They're needing extra staff for the grand ball His Grace is giving. I told Mr. Houghton I know of some likely lads who would serve as pages."

"Us?!"

"Nay, the street arabs I met on the way here," Sheila replied with a teasing smile. "Who else but you?"

"A chance to work inside Kelthorne Hall?" Bobby exclaimed. "Bedad, we--"

"Robert, don't be vulgar," Sheila said with a quelling look.

"Aye, Sheila," Bobby agreed out of pure habit. "But 'tis a grand thing."

"That it is, achusla," Sheila nodded. "And you, Preston? Will you be presentin' yourself at Kelthorne tomorrow?"

"I'll be there at first light," Preston grinned. "Thank you for including me. I can always use a little extra."

"Aye, and who can't?" Sheila returned the smile.

"Kelthorne Hall does its hirin' at first light?" Bobby looked thoughtful. "I didna think th'Fancy would be doin' their hirin' so early."

"They don't," Sheila replied. "I want time to get you cleaned and mended before you present yourselves to Mr. Houghton."

Bobby grimaced, but assured his sister they would be there. Sheila stood and turned to go back up the steps when Bobby scrambled up in front of her. "Faith, Sheila, I nearly forgot about Ma's needlework bag! If y'set here but a minute more, I'll be fetchin' it from the Costers'."

"Now? Bobby, don't be daft."

"'Tis the best time," Bobby assured her. "They'll be all the worse for the drink and sleepin' the sleep of the dead." Before his sister could protest further, he clambered up the steps.

Sheila propped her chin on her hands and shot Preston a rueful smile. "Might as well try tellin' a storm which way to blow," she sighed, making Preston laugh.  


*******

  


The figure in the swirling black greatcoat gave a start of surprise. He'd been to Covent Garden every night in the hopes of separating his newest model from his companions, but to no avail. Never had he expected to see the model sauntering down the street alone as though he didn't have a care in the world. This was simply to good to be true. 

He alighted from his carriage, and motioned for his driver to wait for him. The driver nodded, he was well-paid, and always followed orders without asking questions. If his employer had a taste for snatching beggars from the streets, it was none of his concern.

The man walked swiftly and silently to a dark alley, certain that the boy would have to pass by it again. After several minutes of waiting, he was rewarded by the sight of his model returning the way he came. His fingers tingled with anticipation. 

* * *

_What an utter waste of a perfectly good evening,_ Eric thought to himself as his carriage rolled through the East End. _I'm sure Lady Silverbridge has been invited to any number of balls, but instead she is determined to tour the stews._ He looked at the young lady seated across from him, but she was staring intently out the window. 

Hank was seated next to him, since propriety dictated that neither of the young men could sit next to Diana. It occurred to Eric that it was ridiculous to maintain that tiny bit of decorum, for if it ever got out that Lady Silverbridge had gone riding with two men in a closed carriage in the dead of night, her reputation would be in tatters.

Unlike Diana, Eric only looked out of the window from time to time in order to check their location, but did not spend any more time than necessary studying the streets. Hank had initially been as enthralled with the view as Diana, but sometime after they had passed Dorset Street, he had turned from the window and had not looked out again. Even in the dim light of the carriage Eric could see that Hank had lost a great deal of colour.

The Viscount's pallor notwithstanding, Eric found that an hour spent riding through the slums was too much to be borne. It would take nearly another hour to return to Park Lane, and he had no desire to prolong it. He was about to suggest that they consider returning, but Hank spoke first--

"I wouldn't have thought that you were the sort to be entertained by the suffering of others, Lady Silverbridge."

Eric gaped at him. Such a statement was beyond the pale for anyone, and a complete shock coming from a young man who up until then had been everything agreeable and diffident.

Diana turned from the window and fixed her gaze on Hank. "You object to this tour?"

"It's a poor form of amusement. I think it's cruel in some ways."

"Now see here, Rayner," Eric interrupted. "The very Pinkest of the Pinks take tours of the stews. Some of them even tour St. Bethlehem's. You've got no call to cut Lady Silverbridge just because she wanted to see what the fuss was about. One would think--"

"Please, Lord Blackmoor," Diana said softly but firmly. "While it is very gallant of you to rush to my defence, I'll not be the cause of a quarrel between you two. I'm perfectly able to address Lord Rayner myself." She turned her dark eyes back on Hank. "Is there something in my actions or countenance that suggests I am amused, my lord?"

"No," Hank admitted.

"No," Diana repeated. "I do not find it amusing by any means. Fascinating, perhaps. I've read about such poverty, and I know we lived in the midst of it in India, but Papa would never allow me to go into the heart of Cairo. I wanted to see for myself if what people wrote of London's poor was exaggerated."

"My apologies, Lady Silverbridge," Hank said, and Diana nodded her acceptance. He was still uneasy with the notion that people would want to observe the misfortunes of others in the same manner one watched caged animals, but was relieved to find that Diana's interest was intellectual rather than the desire for a new lark. "How _does_ it compare with what you've read, Lady Silverbridge?" he asked, curious in spite of himself.

"I suppose the author was fairly accurate, but he neglected to mention that so many of the poor were women or that more of them are children. It's quite shocking, don't you think?"

"I think it's down-heartening," Hank replied, looking out the window. "And very sad."

 _And endlessly boring,_ Eric thought, although he knew he couldn't say so out loud. He found it extremely irritating that despite the insult Hank had delivered, Diana was quite willing to forgive him and go on speaking as though nothing untoward had happened. He was secretly glad that neither of them had asked him was he thought of the slums, for he would have to admit that he'd not thought of them at all, except to take precautions that none of the riff-raff would approach his carriage.

Listening to Hank's tone, one could almost take him for a reformer who wished the monarchy and nobility torn down. _But then he **is** an American,_ Eric reminded himself. _It probably has something to do with the way he was raised. Devil take it, he's going to make a cake of himself--and me--if he starts spouting his fustian while I'm trying to introduce him to ladies and gentlemen. He hasn't even the sense to refrain from discussing such things with ladies!_

As he turned half an ear back to the conversation, however, Eric reluctantly admitted that Diana didn't seem put off by the discussion of such unpleasant things. She was eagerly asked Hank about a hard winter in New Hampshire when everyone in his town found themselves as destitute as any street arab.

Eric began to wish that he hadn't agreed to be the person to show Hank around London. Initially, he'd only made the offer because the Duke had seemed so pleased to hear him inviting Hank to join him at Tattersall's and Eric wanted a little more of that approval. He got it--MacArran had praised him greatly for taking "the American" under his wing. Eric knew that to abandon Hank now would lead to endless lectures and scorn from his grandfather.

Besides, Eric conceded, for the most part Hank was actually fairly good company. The way he looked to Eric for guidance much of the time was extremely flattering. What's more, Hank was honest in his admiration or disapproval of the world around him, and Eric could always be certain that a compliment from him was genuine. That was more than could be said for the earwigs and coxcombs he normally surrounded himself with. Eric knew that it infuriated his grandfather no end to have him constantly associating with swells of little consequence and less honour. The Duke would constantly tell Eric that the back-biters only wanted a share of his money and the chance to move into Society and that all their praise and flattery was a means to that end.

Eric never bothered to inform His Grace that he was well-aware that the flattery was merely Spanish coin and they would leave him in the dust should his pockets suddenly turn up empty. He didn't much like that freebooters that flocked around him and found some of their activities too smoky by half. But they were always deferential and would accept with a smile the most cutting insult Eric could offer. All he had to do for their constant admiration was spend his money freely. As for using him as a stepping-stone into Society--Eric had no intention of ever allowing them to do that. He never extended them an invitation to either Kelthorne Hall or any of the clubs on St. James. When with people of quality he never acknowledged them and when with them, he never went anywhere they might meet up with people of quality. He was certain the back-biters despised him for such treatment, although none of them could allow their feelings to show. He loathed them for their falseness and baseness, but spending a few pounds here and there and being praised to the sky as a result was far easier than trying to win his grandfather's respect. For years, he had tried in every way he could, but always, _always_ fell far short of his father's flawless character.

"Eric?" Hank's voice jolted him from his reverie.

"I beg pardon. I was wool-gathering. You were saying?"

"We were wondering, my lord," Diana said. "What would best be done to ease the worst of this poverty. Have you any suggestions?"

Eric blinked in surprise. When had the conversation taken this turn? Recovering, he managed to say-- "There are many charities that see to such things. I'm sure Lady Wylde or Lady Ravenwood would know of them."

Diana seemed content enough with that answer, but Hank looked disappointed. "Of course," was all he said.

Eric was infuriated. This silent disapproval was something he had to endure from his grandfather, but be damned if he was going to take it from a strait-laced, countrified colonial. "Before your spirits are depressed any further, Rayner," he said coolly. "Perhaps we should return to Park Lane."

The words were polite enough, but the tone left Hank wondering how had irritated his temperamental new friend. "Certainly, Eric, if you think that's best," he replied in a similar tone.

"Lady Silverbridge?" Eric turned to Diana.

Ordinarily, Diana would have requested they tour a bit longer, but she could sense the tension radiating from the two young men. "By all means, my lord. I am quite satisfied."

Eric relaxed visibly at her words. "I'm glad to hear it, my lady." Turning slightly, he opened the small trap to speak to his coachman. "Back to the lady's home on Park Lane, Tam."

"Aye, milord. 'Tis shorter through Covent Garden. D'ye want me t'go that way?"

"Bye all means, Tam. The shorter the better."

* * *

Vengrave watched the boy sneak into a tiny shack and emerge with a rag clenched in his hand. Neither the rag nor the shack meant anything to Vengrave, but he knew that the boy was heading back to his friends with his prize. A quick glance told him that his coach was directly across from him, the door partially opened for an easier entrance.

With each step the boy took towards him, Vengrave's fingers twitched more violently. What portrait would this one make? He was too healthy and vibrant to pose as the victim of a wasting disease--as so many of his recent portraits had been. No, a quick, violent death would better suit this brash Irish lad. Vengrave had heard bits and pieces of his conversation and knew the boy was Irish. That he was brash as well was demonstrated by the swaggering stride, the cocky tilt to his head and his stubborn chin that jutted out slightly.

He would make a fine portrait indeed, and he was merely two steps away...

...and now one...

* * *

Silence reigned in the MacArran coach. 

Any attempt by Hank or Diana to make conversation was squelched by Eric; Diana's politely and Hank's ruthlessly. Hank's tone had grown more bewildered and apologetic until it took every ounce of Eric's courtesy to keep from calling him out.

Hank had finally subsided and was gazing out the window. From London Bridge to the merging of Fleet Street and the Strand, no one spoke a word.

Then Eric heard a sharp intake of breath from Hank and turned, annoyed, to ask what was the matter. He saw Hank all but pressed against the coach window, craning his neck in an attempt to see something far down the street.

"What is it?" Diana asked, peering out her own window.

"Stop the coach!" Hank said to Eric.

"Stop the coach?" Eric was incredulous. "We're in the middle of Covent Garden."

"I think there's someone in trouble! We have to stop!"

"Certainly not."

The next instant, Hank had the small trap door open. "Stop at once!" he commanded in a tone that could have come from the king himself.

It certainly worked on Tam. He reined in the horses immediately, but Hank was out even before the coach had stopped rolling.

"The man is a lunatic," was all Eric could say.  


*******

  


Vengrave never expected the little Paddy to give him such trouble. Most of his models got into his coach willingly and those that did not were too weak for their struggles to have any effect. The Irish street rat fought like a demon and cursed at the top of his lungs. When he tried to clamp his hand over the squalling mouth, the boy bit him like a rabid terrier.

"Lemme go, y'bracket-faced, gin-soaked Sassenach! I'll be cuttin' off yer head and makin' a days work o'yer neck, I will! I'll cut out yer eyes and spit in th'sockets, y'bleedin' gull-catcher!"

Just as Vengrave was reflecting that it was lucky that no one in Covent Garden would pay much attention to such a scene, he heard footsteps pounding towards them.

"What are you doing?! Let him go!"

Vengrave looked, thinking he'd have to bully the boy's two friends into handing his model over. He did not expect to see a youth whose fine clothing marked him as a young blood of the ton. 

The boy, realizing he had an ally, yelled all the louder. "He's a bleedin' divil, he is! I was takin' me ma's needlework bag t'me sister when he nabbed me! I'll no go wi'him! Me sister's waitin' on me!"

The youth's face darkened and he gripped Vengrave's wrist. "Leave him be. He doesn't want to go with you!"

Abruptly, Vengrave shoved the boy towards the youth so hard that they both fell onto the cobblestones. He stepped into his coach and ordered his driver to move along.

"Are you all right?" Hank asked when he'd regained his breath. The boy had landed square on his stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

"Aye," the boy replied, getting to his feet. He turned and shook his fist at the disappearing coach. "May th'divil swallow ye sideways, y'bleedin' Sassenach! May th'divil take y'by th'heels and shake ye! May ye fester in yer grave like th'demon y'are! May--" he broke off abruptly when he heard someone chuckling behind him.

"If any one of those come true, I'll say he's been properly punished."

The boy frowned. "Faith, but ye talk strange fer a Sassen--fer an Englishman."

"That's probably because I'm American."

The boy lifted his chin proudly. "I'm pure Irish, I am. Me name's Bobby O'Brien."

The boy's cocky manner reminded Hank of friends back home and he couldn't help smiling. "I'm Hank Grayson."

"Truly yer from Americay?" Bobby's eyes were keen with interest.

"I am."

"Are y'homesick here? I pine t'see Ireland again. 'Tis the grandest place in th'world."

"You've never seen America," Hank replied. "It's the best place in the world."

"Ah, but ye've neva seen Ireland," Bobby returned and they grinned at one another.

A flash of colour caught Hank's eye, something out of place on the filthy London streets. "You mentioned your mother's needlework bag," Hank nodded towards the bright cloth.

"St. Patrick's eyes!" Bobby scrambled to snatch the bag from the mud. "T'would be awful t'lose this."

"Is your mother very fond of it?"

"Aye, she was," Bobby looked up at him with trust in his eyes. "She and Da were killed jus' months after we came t'London."

"I'm sorry, Bobby," Hank said quietly. "I know what that's like. My parents were killed in a fire six months ago. You're lucky to have a sister, though. I often wished I had a brother or sister."

Bobby's eyes widened. "Faith, how did y'know I had a sister?" he asked in amazement, having forgotten all the things he'd shouted in his struggle.

"You told me so yourself. Hadn't you better get back to her? She's probably worried."

"Bobby!" an anxious voice called.

Bobby grinned at Hank again. "Me sister's a seelie, she is! Speak o'her or say her name an' she appears--quick as any will o'the wisp."

Hank couldn't help laughing, but his humour disappeared when two more people rushed up to them, both pale with concern.

"Faith, Bobby, y'had me scared out o'me wits! Preston and I heard a great row coming from this way and I was scared to death it might have been you."

"It was," Bobby replied proudly, then proceeded to explain that a "bleedin' Sassenach" had tried to drag him off.

He never got to finish his tale, because halfway through, his sister snatched him up in a desperate hug. "Saints above, acushla, I have to take you away from this wretched city!"

"Faith, Sheila, that divil wouldn't'a got me. And Hank was there t'help me. The viper's lucky he got away when he did."

"Hank?" Sheila frowned, then remembered the young man her brother had been talking to.

"Hank Grayson, Miss O'Brien." Hank smiled involuntarily at the pretty face before him. The shawl that half-covered her head was old and faded, but it did nothing to detract from the bright red curls which tumbled about her face. Hank knew at once that the young woman was not one which his aunt and uncle would include in their circle of friends, but that made little difference to him. He was taken with the smattering of pale freckled scattering over the ivory skin, with the small straight nose that had just the slightest tilt at the tip, and especially with the large, deep blue eyes.

Sheila recognized the admiration in the young stranger's sky-blue eyes, but for once she was pleased rather than worried. Her instincts told her that she had nothing to fear from this handsome young man, and not merely because he had just rescued her brother.

"He's from Americay, Sheila," Bobby informed his sister, jolting her back to the present. "Sure, and I should've known that. What Englishman would eva stop t'help a soul. 'Specially in Coven' Garden."

Sheila looked at Bobby then back at Hank. "You're American?"

"That's right. I've only been in London for a few weeks, actually." Hank's smile widened. "And you're Irish. I would have known even if Bobby hadn't told me."

Preston watched Sheila converse with Bobby's rescuer with much bewilderment and growing concern. American he might be, but did Sheila not see the fine clothes that marked him as a member of the upper classes? He didn't act like Society, though. When he was introduced to Preston, Hank held out his hand to shake. In all his life, no one had ever offered to shake hands with Preston before and here the Grayson fellow was acting as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Without realizing it, Preston stood a little straighter and held his head a bit higher.  


*******

  


"That deuced shatterbrain!" Eric grumbled. "Where the devil is he?"

"You don't suppose he's come to any harm, do you?" Diana asked, looking anxiously out the window for a glimpse of the Viscount.

"It he does, it's no more than he deserves."

"Surely you don't mean that, Lord Blackmoor."

"By rights we should be on our way. It would serve the fool right to be stranded in Covent Garden."

"Can't you have you coachman drive about so we might see him?"

"Go chasing about Covent Garden looking for a fool? No, thank you all the same."

Diana tilted her head to one side as she studied the Marquis. She suspected that his bark was much worse than his bite, although his bark was fairly nasty in itself. She knew that manners and proprieties had been bred into him since birth and decided that she'd have to take a gamble. "I can't in good conscience sit here when Viscount Rayner may be in danger." With those words she opened the door and hopped out of the coach so quickly that Eric didn't have the chance to protest.

 _Good Lord! I've been driving about London with a lunatic and a madwoman!_ Eric swore mightily, and paused only long enough to pick up Hank's tall beaver hat before leaving the coach. "Wait here, Tam," he ordered.

"Aye, milord." There was laughter in the Scot's voice, but Eric was too distracted to notice.

Eric soon managed to overtake Diana and it was all he could do not to grab her arms and shake some sense into her. "Have you lost your wits completely?" he hissed.

She favoured him with a brilliant smile. "Good evening, Lord Blackmoor. How lovely to see you again." She sounded as though they were at a grand ball rather than standing on a filthy street.

"You _have_ lost your wits!" Eric groaned. "Have you not thought whatever for your reputation?"

"Apparently not," Diana replied lightly, then continued walking up the street.

"Damnation!" Eric hurried after her, shrugging off his greatcoat as he went. "Here," he said when he caught up with her again. "Put this on, for God's sake," he thrust the greatcoat at her. "If anyone recognizes you, Lady Wylde will have to pack you off to the country at once."

Diana slipped the greatcoat on and buttoned it--no easy feat when the sleeves were several inches longer than her arms. Although she was taller than most ladies, the hem of the coat still touched the ground, which fortunately meant that not an inch of her dress could be seen.

"This will have to do," Eric sounded resigned. He clapped Hank's hat on her head and pulled the brim low over her forehead.

Diana couldn't help herself. She burst into giggles.

"There is absolutely nothing funny about this situation," Eric sounded insulted.

With great difficulty, Diana composed herself. "You are right, of course. We must find Lord Rayner."

"And the sooner the better," Eric agreed, taking her arm as they started up Drury Lane. Eric thanked the stars for the late hour. Earlier in the evening, Society would have been wandering up and down the Lane, attending one of the offerings of the many theatres.

Finally, they spotted Hank, and Eric was immediately incensed. _What is the imbecilic bumpkin about? Passing the time of day with two guttersnipes and some chit?_ Angrily, he strode toward the quartet. Diana had to run to keep up. "Rayner!" he said in a sharp voice. "What do you mean by making the coach wait while you stand about out here?"

Sheila's heart nearly stopped when she heard that voice. Mr. Grayson was an acquaintance of the Marquis! She took another look at Hank and saw the fine clothes she hadn't noticed before. _And what if his lordship should see me? Blessed Virgin, I'll be turned out sure as I'm standing here!_ She caught her brother's hand and began edging away.

"I'm sorry, Eric. But the boy--Bobby--" Hank nodded towards them and Sheila froze. "He was in trouble. Then his sister and his friend arrived and we got to talking. Where is--" he broke off when a bizarre figure behind Eric waved at him. He stared hard, seeing the hat was his own, and then realized who was wearing it. "Oh."

"Shall we be on our way?" Eric asked, although it was more of a command than a suggestion.

"Of course, Eric. It was nice to meet you, Preston," he shook hands with the young apprentice again. Messing Bobby's hair, he grinned, "Don't give your sister too much trouble, now."

"I won't," Bobby returned the grin.

Sheila was trying to shrink back into the shadows, but Hank caught her eye. He gave her a warm smile. "It was a great pleasure to meet you, Miss O'Brien."

"Thank you, sir. My thanks again for saving my brother."

"I was happy to help, although Bobby probably would have escape on his own. He's a real fighter."

"Still, t'isn't anyone that would have stepped in." Uncertainly, she held out her hand.

Eric was torn between amusement and amazement when Hank actually took Sheila's hand. For a moment it looked as though he was actually going to raise it to his lips. They gazed into each other's eyes until Eric said-- "The coach is waiting."

"I'll be right there," Hank replied quietly, never taking his eyes from Sheila's face. "Good night, Miss O'Brien."

"Good night to you, sir."  


*******

  


"I'm glad Lady Silverbridge enjoyed her evening," Hank said as the MacArran coach pulled away from the Countess of Wylde's home. 

A corner of Eric's mouth quirked upwards. "'Enjoyed' would be a gross understatement," he replied, as he recalled Diana's excited conversation during the ride back. "One hopes she manages to restrain herself, otherwise all our work at protecting her reputation will be for naught." 

"I don't think she would tell anyone about it."

"No doubt she feels you are responsible for turning a simple tour into a great adventure. Quite rightfully, too."

"I am sorry, Eric. But the boy was in trouble, I couldn't just--"

Eric waved the apology away. "You explained your actions to me on Drury Lane and again in the coach. There's no need to go through all that again. Let us put the matter to rest."

"I'd appreciate that."

"Done," Eric said briskly, they he flashed one of his rare grins. "And what of the street rat's sister? You seemed rather taken with her."

Hank turned a dull red. "His name is Bobby, and I though we weren't going to talk about it anymore."

"About you jumping from the coach like a candidate from Bedlam, no. But this is a different matter entirely."

"Is it?" Hank looked a bit uncomfortable.

"Indeed. I vow, she didn't seem like a common bit o' muslin. No doubt she views herself as rather respectable."

Hank frowned. "Respectable? Why wouldn't she be?"

"Then what, pray tell, was she doing on Drury Lane in the dead of night?"

"I don't know. But then, Lady Silverbridge was on Drury Lane in the middle of the night."

Eric was stunned into speechlessness for several long minutes. When he did speak, his voice was strangled. "Never say you are actually comparing Lady Silverbridge to the likes of that Irish chit."

"' _The likes of_?' What do you mean by that? And she not a _chit_ \--her name is Sheila."

Eric didn't press the subject any further. He was taken aback by the amount of anger in Hank's tone and face. He sighed inwardly, _Americans. I wonder if the entire nation is so bloody-minded._

* * *

Sheila made her way up to the top floor of Kelthorne Hall and crept into the small room she shared with three other housemaids. Silently, she slipped into her night rail and laid down on her narrow bed. Normally, she was exhausted from the day's work and fell into a deep sleep immediately, but tonight she was wide awake. The prospect of Bobby being employed at the hall, the scene with the Costers, and the horror of Bobby's near-abduction all paled before the image of a handsome young American.

Hank Grayson. Sheila thought it was a fine, noble-sounding name that suited him perfectly. He was obviously a friend of the Marquis of Blackmoor, yet he'd stood talking to her, Bobby and Preston as though _they_ were of the Fancy. His clothes and friends marked him as someone as wealth and consequences, but he didn't seem aware of it and acted as though he was no better than she was.

 _And what lovely eyes!_ Not the dark Kerry blue of herself and her brother, but a pale blue--almost silvery in the dim light of Drury Lane. And when he looked at her...

Sheila snuggled under her covers with a heartfelt sigh. Tomorrow she would recall the vast social distance between her and Hank Grayson. Tomorrow she would go back to being practical and sensible. Tonight was for dreaming.

* * *

Vengrave had his coachman turn back onto Drury Lane and stop a short distance from the group of young people. He watched them until everyone went their separate ways, and finally reached his decision. He had never before abandoned his pursuit of a model--always the pursuit had ended in the creation of a new work of art, but he now decided that the Irish street rat would not be the best choice. He was grateful to the little Paddy, though, for the boy had introduced him to someone who would likely make a masterpiece better than any he'd ever imagined. 

The risk was immeasurable, this was not someone that could disappear unnoticed. Vengrave soon reached the conclusion, however, that any risk was worth it. In his mind's eye, he could already picture his finished work. He would call it "Death of an Avenging Angel."

* * *

Never before had Baron Vengrave been forced to put so much time and effort into the acquisition of a new model. Before, his models had been chosen and taken in the course of a single day. It had been two weeks since the little Paddy led him to the perfect portrait, but Vengrave was content to wait, certain that his patience would be amply rewarded.

He had not been idle during those two weeks. Rather, he used the time to gather the necessary information about his Avenging Angel. Vengrave paid well for useful knowledge, and soon he knew all he needed to about his model. The fact that his Avenging Angel was also the new Viscount Rayner did not deter Vengrave, for the Viscount was also an American and therefore not actually a noble. What's more, he made his home with the utterly ridiculous Earl and Countess of Ravenwood. What right did a pair of feckless fools have to an Angel in their midst? Far better for the young Viscount to be truly immortalized by the Baron's talent.

To that end, Vengrave soon decided that the MacArran Masque would be the perfect place to spirit his model away without the slightest notice. He dispatched his man of affairs to secure him an invitation to the Masque. It was no easy feat, considering how strict the Duke was with his guest list, but Mr. Damon Wodash had been hired for his efficiency, not his scruples. The invitation Vengrave would present at the door was meant for Sir John Timmons. While Vengrave attended the Masque, Sir John would be left wondering what he had done to offend the Duke of MacArran.

Vengrave's mouth twisted into a parody of a smile as he surveyed his costume. He picked up the thin porcelain mask he had shaped to fit him exactly and completely cover his face. In the other hand he held a paintbrush, and with deft strokes, he began to transform the mask into a work of art. The doctors in Bedlam who had called him insane were fools. Anyone suffering from an unhinged mind would certainly not have his sense of rightness. No one else would be able to appreciate how fitting his choice of facade was, except perhaps the Avenging Angel himself. After all, who was more suited to snaring an Angel than Death?

* * *

Diana studied her reflection as Hortense concentrated on setting two black velvet triangles into her tightly pulled-back hair without disturbing the numerous glass jewels woven into the coiffure. Once the little ears were set, Diana held the wide, jewelled collar in place while Hortense fastened it at the back. "Regardez-vous, mademoiselle."

Diana stood up and turned to look at herself in the full-length mirror Hortense brought forward. She couldn't help smiling at what she saw--the costume was almost exactly as she'd envisioned it. Although there had been some alterations in the name of English modesty, her gown was still unmistakably Egyptian. The stiff linen skirt that fell to her ankles had been embroidered with thousands of tiny pieces of coloured glass and caught the light with the slightest movement.

A long-sleeved chemise of black satin had been made to fit her like a second skin and gave the impression--Diana hoped--that her arms and shoulders were made from obsidian. Two wide panels of glass beads had been strategically embroidered into the silk. Golden bracelets were laddered up her arms and golden sandals adorned her feet. As she picked up the exquisitely made black mask and held it before her face, her smile widened.

"Vous étés trés belle."

"Merci, Hortense." Diana set the mask back down until she was ready to leave.

"Qui est-ce que cette bête noire?"

"Bast," Diana replied, even though she knew the name meant little to her maid.

Hortense merely shrugged. "C'est tout, mademoiselle?"

"Oui, c'est tout. Allez-vous."

Hortense made a quick curtsey and left to make sure her mistress' specially made cloak was ready.

Diana smoothed her slim-fitting dress and reflected that perhaps Lady Wylde hadn't been unreasonable in her concern about Diana's choice of costume. Although there would certainly be other Egyptian-themed costumes at the Masque, Diana doubted there would be any quite like hers. The only mythological creature of Egypt that the ton seem to be concerned with was the Sphinx. Indeed, Lady Wylde had not known who Bast was until Diana told her.

Originally, Lady Wylde suggested that Diana go as a Sphinx or even Queen Cleopatra, but Diana had remained firm. There would be many sphinxes and Cleopatras in stiff white linen, but she would be the only cat-goddess and her brightly spangled costume would make her all the more noticeable.

* * *

"Are you sure I don't look like a complete fool?"

"Not a'tall, my boy, not a'tall."

Hank gave himself one last dubious look in the mirror before sitting down in the chair across from Ravenwood. "I feel ridiculous."

"Fustian, lad. My lady knows what she's about."

"I'm sure she does, but...do you know what would happen if I wore something like this back home?"

"To be sure, that costume is hardly fit for farming," Ravenwood conceded.

"Farming would be the least of my worries. I'd be laughed out of town. As it is, I'm almost afraid to move." Hank looked down at his snowy tunic. Only silver embroidery and decoration alleviated the pristine white of his costume from his collar to his boots.

When Lady Ravenwood told him about the MacArran Masque, Hank had decided to wear a costume similar to one he had worn to a masquerade party in New Hampshire. Lady Ravenwood quickly vetoed his idea, however, saying that a minuteman's uniform would hardly be appreciated in London.

Embarrassed, Hank had seen the wisdom in her words and requested her help in fashioning a costume, much to her delight. The result was Sir Galahad--dressed from head to toe in white and silver. Hank had been reluctant to wear it at first, positive that it was horrendously overdone, but he knew Lady Ravenwood would be very disappointed if he did not wear it. 

He felt a bit more comfortable when he went downstairs to the drawing room and saw Lord Ravenwood in a suit made of gold satin. The Earl and Countess were attending the Masque as the Sun and Moon, and accordingly, Ravenwood's coat was fairly encrusted with sunburst patterns in gold thread.

"My absurd and adorable wife knows how to turn heads at these affairs, Henry. Always has and, I daresay, always will."

"High praise indeed," chuckled a voice from the doorway.

Both men stood as Lady Ravenwood entered the drawing room. Her gown of silver satin and icy blue tulle gave her the appearance of gliding. Diamonds glittered at her throat and in her hair and in one had she carried a round silver mask shaped with the face of the moon.

"You look beautiful, Lady Ravenwood," Hank said simply.

"Thank you, dear boy," Lady Ravenwood favoured him with a brilliant smile.

"You're sure t'shine everyone down, m'dear," Ravenwood added as he handed her a glass of claret.

"Everyone except our young Viscount, my lord," Lady Ravenwood corrected. "I vow, we'll be hard-pressed to keep the ladies away from such a dashing Sir Galahad." Her smile widened as Hank's face flushed. "Here now, that will never do, Henry. I'll wager no Knight of the Round Table ever coloured up just because a lady paid him a compliment."

"But no Knight of the Round Table ever received a compliment from _you_ , Lady Ravenwood."

"Well met!" Lady Ravenwood laughed. "Well met indeed, dear boy. You learn quickly." She set down her half-empty glass. "You'll be in fine form tonight."

"I hope so."

"Oh?" Lady Ravenwood arched an elegant eyebrow. "And would this hope have anything to do with a certain lady?"

Hank blinked in surprise. Although he hadn't seen Sheila O'Brien since the escapade in Covent Garden, she was often in his thoughts. Apparently Lady Ravenwood had noticed.

"A most unusual lady," Lady Ravenwood continued. "But very beautiful and charming."

Hank was about to agree most heartily, when it struck him that she was speaking as though she knew this particular lady. "I'm not sure I--"

"I'll wager you'll have a fair bit of competition, though," Lord Ravenwood added. "Not in the least from your new friend, the Marquis."

Hank had to stifle a smile at the thought of Eric paying the least attention to Miss O'Brien, but Ravenwood's words left little doubt who the lady in question was. That made it much easier to agree with Lady Ravenwood without having to pretend sincerity.

"Rather strong-willed chit, I must say," Lord Ravenwood continued as the footmen brought in the specially-made cloaks. "Seen her set down a few of those rakes that are always dangling after her."

Hank couldn't help grinning at the memory of the strong-willed Lady Silverbridge convincing Eric to tour the strews. "Lady Silverbridge knows her own mind and that's a fact." As the footman draped his white velvet cloak--or domino, as Lady Ravenwood called it--around his shoulders, Hank's thoughts turned from Lady Silverbridge to the fact that wearing a fur-trimmed cloak in June was utterly ridiculous. What's more, the price of the extravagant cloak he would only be wearing for an hour at the most likely have kept his aunt and uncle in coal and food for an entire winter.

Not for the first time, Hank had to remind himself that he was now living in a completely different place than New Hampshire and that it was impossible to compare the two.

"Henry?" Lady Ravenwood's voice broke into his thoughts.

He saw a footman hold the front door open and the Earl and Countess waiting for him in the doorway.

"Come along, m'boy," Ravenwood prompted. "We dare not keep the beautiful, wicked Luna waiting, for she is anxious to show you off."

Hank laughed as he followed them out to the coach. Lord and Lady Ravenwood were good-hearted people who had been very kind to him, so it hardly seemed to matter that Lady Ravenwood would have no idea what a butter dash was for or that Lord Ravenwood wouldn't know a cutter-bar if it was right under his nose.

* * *

Sheila finished pinning the white muslin cap on her red curls and then smoothed her long skirt before tying on a new, well-starched white apron. It was the first new dress she'd had in some time and the fact that it was of black bombazine was not nearly as important at the knowledge that it hadn't cost her a farthing. One of the reasons a position at Kelthorne Hall was so sought after was that His Grace saw to it that every servant--from the butler to the lowest scullery maid--received a new evening livery every year. Every other employer Sheila had heard of required servant to pay for their own clothing.

She had little time to admire the new uniform, however, and she hurried downstairs to find her brother and Preston. She eventually found them in the kitchen enjoying muffins and treacle in a corner. "Faith, did ye not get any supper?"

Bobby shook his head, his mouth to full to answer.

Preston replied instead. "Mr. Houghton asked us to run some extra errands once he found out I could read. He said we'd likely miss supper, but we did them all anyway."

"When we got Mr. 'oughton sent us down 'ere t'have suppa," Bobby eagerly took the thick slice of bread topped with cheese and a rasher of ham that the cook handed him. "And faith, y'can't tell me this ain't better than sittin' down t'a table and havin' t'mind me manners."

The cook chuckled as she handed Preston a similarly laden slice of bread. "They're to report to Charles for their duties when they're done 'ere. I'll send them along."

Sheila nodded, barely catching herself before she gave Bobby a kiss. She turned to go back upstairs, but the cook followed her and caught her arm before she could mount the first step.

"Don't fret yourself, dearie," she said as she wiped her hands on her apron. "I heard Mr. 'oughton telling Charles that the lads were 'ard-workin' and that he would mention to His Grace about 'irin' on the both of them."

Sheila grasped the cook's hand gratefully. "Thanks t'ye, Mrs. Murray. 'Tis a great relief t'hear."

"Go along with you, then," Mrs. Murray nudged her towards the stairs. "But if you know a likely gel, remember that I still need a new kitchenmaid."

"I will that," Sheila promised, then flew up the stairs before she was missed.

* * *

Eric was forced to bite back several unflattering remarks when he first realized it was Hank in the dazzling Sir Galahad costume. _What the devil is that colonial about, trying to shine down his hosts?_ he thought when he saw the Viscount in his white splendour bowing over the hand of Bast.

Eric was dressed as an Elizabethan courtier and knew he was certain to outshine every other youngblood in his breastplate of golden armour. He felt a sting of betrayal that Hank would eclipse him so blatantly and successfully until he recalled Hank say at Lady St. John's last ball that he'd left his costume entirely in the hands of Lady Ravenwood. With that in mind, Eric was able to speak to Hank in the same manner as he usually did.

Diana thought they made a splendid pair and told them so as she linked arms with both of them, laughing about her wealth. They made a striking trio as they strolled through the crowd, stopping occasionally so Eric could greet certain guests.

Although anonymity was supposed to be the hallmark of a masked ball, very few in the haute ton wanted to remain anonymous--especially those who had spent enormous sums of money on their costumes. There would be a few who would remain unknown for the entire evening, but most people let their identities be known by the end of the first few dances. 

Eric was debating with Hank and Diana which of the Pinks would be the first unmasked when they were approached by a regal Highlander. Diana immediately dropped a curtsey. "Your Grace."

"Lady Bast," MacArran nodded, making Diana smile. As the host, the Duke was the only person not wearing a mask. "Sir Galahad."

"Your Grace," Hank smiled, returning the older man's nod.

"The first dance is about to begin," MacArran gave Eric a stern look.

Eric ground his teeth. "Pray tell Lady Cholmondeley I will be along in a moment."

"Come along now," MacArran suggested, although everyone who heard it knew it was an order.

"Yes, sir." With a bow to Diana, Eric followed his grandfather through the crowd.

"I thought he would have secured you for the first dance," Hank commented.

Diana smiled at Hank's puzzled tone and the compliment it implied. "You don't bother yourself with Society's rules, do you, my lord?"

Hank shrugged, "I tried to understand them all when I first arrived, but soon gave it up as a hopeless task."

Diana laughed, "Then you aren't aware that at a ball it is customary for the host or hostess to open the quadrille with the guest of the highest rank. I believe that would be the Duchess of Warwick and her daughter, Lady Cholmondeley."

"Poor Eric," Hank shook his head, recalling Lady Cholmondeley as a haughty, pinched-faced young woman concerned with little besides the latest on dit. "I suppose his loss is my gain. Will you take this turn with me, Lady Bast?"

"I should be delighted, Sir Galahad."

* * *

Sheila couldn't remember the last time she had rushed about so frantically and she was certain her feet would be aching for days afterward, but she was enjoying the Masque enormously. She hurried back and forth, carrying empty trays from the ballroom and returning from the kitchen with replenished trays of canapes, pastries and sweetmeats. Each trip into the ballroom brought glimpse of the glittering costumes and Sheila found herself arranging the pastries extra carefully so that she could watch everything for longer stretches.

She was so intent of catching sight of the waltz in the ballroom that she forgot to fade into invisibility when a couple approached the table. She was placing a pastry when she felt it slipping from her fingers and had to tighten her grip. Much to her surprise, the pastry was still trying to escape. She glanced at it and was horrified to see black-gloved fingers holding the same pastry.

She released it immediately, mortified at the thought of playing tug-of-war with one of His Grace's guests. Risking a glance upwards, she was relieved to see that the brown eyes behind the cat half-mask were amused rather than angry. When she saw the Marquis approaching, she gave a quick curtsey by way of apology and blended into the background, praying that the lady would be kind enough not to mention her terrible mistake to his lordship.  


*******

  


Diana watched the young housemaid retreat with a bemused frown, certain that she had seen her before. She took a harder look at the disappearing figure and was immediately struck by the bright red curls only partially hidden by the mob cap.

When she realized that the housemaid was the girl Viscount Rayner had met in Covent Garden, she didn't know whether to be shocked or burst out laughing. She also recalled the Marquis teasing his friend about "Irish lassies" since that night and could only assume that Rayner that developed a tendre for the young woman.

Diana wondered whether Hank knew that the girl was employed by the Duke of MacArran. Eric was obviously unaware of the fact, or he would have ceased to view the Viscount's interest as a good joke.

As for Diana, she found the situation highly romantic and by far the most interesting thing to happen since her arrival in London. It reminded her of the novels she was fond of and she couldn't help but wonder whether Sir Galahad and the servant were aware of one another's presence. Smiling, she accepted the glass of champagne Eric held out to her, all the while planning a way for the American lord and the Irish maid to meet.  


*******

  


Hank entered the card room, hoping to find some semblance of quiet. He was disappointed to find it nearly as noisy as the ballroom. Dowagers chatted over cribbage and whist, young people were engaged in lively games of Pope Joan and loo, while in a half-hidden corner, several young men and a few notorious ladies were gambling at faro, ecarte and hazard. James Whittaker, Baron Middleton, spotted him and gestured that Hank join in the game of hazard. Hank bowed politely, but remained where he was, having no desire to take up gambling or to further his acquaintance with any of the gamblers.

He left the card room after a few minutes and headed in the opposite direction of the ballroom. Surely in a house as big as Kelthorne Hall, there would be somewhere that he could snatch a few moments of solitude. He wondered if he'd ever become accustomed to the crowds at Society's balls. The Masque was even more of a crush than others and the gawdy, sparkling costumes all seemed to blend into a swirl of colour and noise that made his head ache.

Lady Ravenwood had been correct about the attention Hank would receive, which was another reason for his escape. Although he enjoyed the dancing and the teasing compliments of the young ladies, the prying questions of their mammas were discomfiting.

Hank found a staircase that led down to the kitchens and was prepared to descend--knowing no one at the ball would ever dream of entering a kitchen--when he saw a door right of the staircase standing ajar. A quick look inside revealed it to be a storage room for dry foodstuffs. It was cool, dim and quiet, and best of all, no one would look for him inside. Any servant that found him would let him alone, seeing as he was dressed as a guest and fairly well-known at Kelthorne. Likely they would think he was out of his wits, but Hank decided he didn't care about that. He took off his silver helmet, sat down on a barrel and snagged a handful of oyster crackers from an open tin, resolving to stay until his head had cleared of noise and lights.

It was well past midnight and Hank, still used to country hours, was tempted to lean back and take a short nap. He grinned at the thought of being discovered snoozing on top of a flour barrel dressed in white satin and silver. Lady Silverbridge might think it a fine joke, but Eric would be appalled. Hank tried to picture the Marquis' reaction and had to choke back a laugh.

He stopped with a cracker halfway to his mouth when he heard footsteps approaching his hideaway. He sat up straighter and resigned himself to this bit of embarrassment.

A young boy entered the room and gave a start of surprise when he saw it was occupied. "Bedad! Y'scared th'very divil from me, m'lord."

Hank grinned. He immediately would have recognized that voice if he hadn't recognized the freckled face. "Sorry, Bobby," he replied, as though their meeting were perfectly natural.

Bobby blinked and raised his eyes. "Hank?! Blessed St. Patrick, what're ye doin' here?"

"Hiding," Hank laughed.

Bobby's eyes widened as he took in Hank's clothing. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, d'ye mean t'say yer a guest of his Dukeship?"

"That's right. What about--"

"Bedad, yer one of the Fancy, Hank?"

"The Fancy?" Hank raised his eyebrows.

"Th'lords and ladies what canna be bother t'take notice of anyone wi'out Earl or Duke behind his name."

"I'm a Viscount, if that's what you mean."

"Blessed St. Patrick, Hank--me lord--I can't be talkin' t'ye. What th'divil are y'doin' in a pantry? Divil take ye, Hank...I mean, me lord...why did ye not say y'were a bleedin' Viscount? Bloody hell, I thought y'were an American."

"I am American."

"Faith, then how can y'be a Viscount?"

"I inherited the title from a distant relative." Hank frowned, "What difference does it make?"

"Faith, if I'm seen talkin' t'ye, I'll be losin' me chance fer a position here. Aye, and Sheila could surely lose hers too."

"Sheila?" Hank smiled involuntarily. "She works here, too?"

"Aye. 'Twas herself that got Preston and meself the positions tonight."

"Bobby, could you get a message to her for me?"

"Not fer a fortune!" Bobby scowled. "She'd be packed out as sure as yer born for consorting with one of the Fancy."

"Bobby, I'm not one of the Fancy." Hank tried to calm the indignant boy. "I've only been a Viscount for a little over a month and I'm not very good at it. For most of my life I've lived on a farm in New Hampshire."

Bobby's dark expression faded. "Me family lived on a farm in Ireland, but I was just a wee lad then."

"Just a wee lad, were you?" Hank grinned.

Bobby cocked his head and regarded Hank carefully. "Truly, ye'll no have Sheila dismissed?"

"I promise, Bobby."

"It'll no be a simple task t'get a message t'her."

"But you'll try?"

"Aye," Bobby nodded. "What do I tell her?"

"Ask her if there's any way we could meet face to face."

"Cor, don't ask fer much, do ye?" Bobby picked up the kegs he'd been sent for. "I'll try t'get word t'her, me lord."

"Hank," Hank corrected.

Apparently reassured by that, Bobby nodded again. "Aye, Hank, I'll tell her."

When Bobby was gone, Hank let out a happy sigh and put his helmet back on. Maybe this ball would turn out to be more interesting that he'd expected.  


*******

  


His portrait truly was angelic. Benevolent enough to practically walk into his hands. Who would ever thought that an avenging angel would be so compliant? Or that the troublesome little Paddy would prove so helpful?

* * *

Hank walked into the ballroom in far better spirits than he'd left it a half-hour earlier. Indeed, Lady Ravenwood made mention of it when he stopped to speak with her and meet still more of her friends. "I daresay you've been sampling the Duke's excellent wine, Henry."

"I give you my word, Lady Ravenwood, that I've only had a single glass of the stuff."

"Then perhaps it is a young lady who has put such a twinkle in your eye," the Countess of Highcastle suggested.

"That would be a very lucky lady indeed," added Lady Monkcrest.

Rather than looking embarrassed, Hank gave the ladies a devilish grin.

Lady Ravenwood returned his smile. "I believe you will find Lady Silverbridge just finishing the redowa with young Cosair."

Hank glanced around--Lady Silverbridge was just the person he wanted to speak to.

"You ought to hurry if you wish to secure her for the next," Lady Ravenwood added. "Before the Marquis does."

"Excellent advice, my lady--as always." After a small bow, Hank began making his way through the crowd towards Lady Silverbridge. He saw that Eric was heading in the same direction, although the Marquis seemed to be in no hurry. Hank was able to reach Lady Silverbridge several steps ahead of his friend and held out his hand to her, saying-- "Would you honour me with this waltz, Lady Bast?"

Diana took his hand eagerly. "Gladly, my lord. I've been searching for you for nearly an hour."

Hank saw Eric approaching and quickly swung Diana into the waltz. He knew the Marquis' expression boded ill for their next encounter. _I wonder if Eric would actually call me out?_ Shaking off the thought, he looked back at Diana. "I've been hoping to speak to you, Lady Silverbridge."

"And I, you, Lord Rayner."

Hank took a deep breath. "Miss O'Brien, who we met in Covent Garden--"

"--is here," Diana finished. "She is employed by the Duke. I know. I saw her."

Hank blinked. "You...you know?"

"But of course. I noticed your interest that night--and hers as well, I might add," Diana smiled at Hank's hopeful expression. "And it wasn't terribly difficult to make out that she was the lass the Marquis is forever jibing you over. It's very mean of him."

"I don't mind," Hank guided them into a sweeping turn. "But it would be difficult to tell him that Miss O'Brien works under his roof. I'm not sure what he would say."

"I have a fair idea," Diana replied dryly.

"Well, I met up with Bobby--"

"Bobby?"

"Her brother."

"Yes, of course," Diana nodded for Hank to continue.

"He said that he'd try to get a message to Miss O'Brien for me, although he didn't seem happy about it."

"With good reason," Diana replied. "They would both lose their posts if they were found to be consorting with those above their rank." The helmet did not allow her to see much of Hank's face, but the tightening of his lips and whitening of his jaw indicated what he thought of the situation. "I suppose things are very different in America."

Hank sighed. "They're supposed to be. There are no titles or such, but there are still divisions."

"Then this is something you are accustomed to."

"I suppose," Hank shrugged as best he could while waltzing. "My father--and later my uncle--had what people called 'two-horse farms.' We weren't exactly poor, but there wasn't much to spare, either. The merchants and older families in town would have run us off our land if I'd ever presumed to court their daughters."

Diana's jaw dropped when she realized the Marquis had less in common with his peers than with their servants. She abruptly snapped her mouth shut, seeing as gaping at one's dance partner was quite unladylike.

Hank misread her expression. "Perhaps you would prefer to end this dance, Lady Silverbridge," he suggested, a slight chill seeping into his voice.

"I would, my lord. Just as soon as we reach the far end of the room."

"I beg your pardon?" Hank's tone betrayed his bewilderment.

"My dear Viscount, I have a plan to propose to you." Behind the mask, the dark eyes were alight with excitement.

"Plan?"

"Perhaps you aren't aware of it, but through those doors are several chambers for the ladies to rest and refresh themselves," Diana nodded towards the double doors that they were approaching. "Now, why don't I just retire though them and require the assistance of a maid for an hour or two?"

"Assistance with what?"

"Oh, any silly little thing," Diana replied impatiently. "I'll tell them I want the glass beads on my cloak polished before I go home. Don't laugh, my lord," she admonished when she saw Hank's grin. "The servants have undoubtedly had more trivial requests than that. I will simply insist that the first maid I see--and I assure you, it will be your Miss O'Brien--polish my cloak in the ladies' chambers. None of the other servants will gainsay me."

Hank nodded. "And then I will be able to see her while she is cleaning your cloak."

"My dear Lord Rayner!" Diana exclaimed indignantly. "Do you really believe I'll set Miss O'Brien to such a petty task?"

"I beg your pardon. I--"

"Fustian. There's no need to waste time begging my pardon. Simply listen to the rest of my plan."

"There's more?"

"In the ladies chamber are also various odds and ends for ladies who wish to alter their costumes. It will be a simple matter for me to dress Miss O'Brien up and have her join us in the ballroom."

Now it was Hank's turn to gape. "Are you serious?"

"It's absolute unheard of--I know," Diana looked quite pleased with the idea. "But that is precisely the reason we will be successful. If you are not dancing the waltz with your Irish lass within the hour, it will not but due to any lack of effort on my part."

They broke away from the swirling crowd near the double doors. Although the waltz wasn't over, they separated, Hank giving a bow and Diana a curtsey. "My lady," Hank said as he straightened. "I don't know whether I should be deeply grateful or very frightened by your plan."

"We'll just to wait and see how the evening ends, then, won't we?" Diana's smile flashed once more before she disappeared through the doors.  


*******

  


Diana found it odd to be searching for someone to help with her clothing so near the kitchen, but if that was where Miss O'Brien was to be found, then so be it. She waited in her well-concealed nook until the Irish maid walked past, carrying an empty tray back to the kitchen. Diana fell in behind her and as soon as they were in view of one of the higher-ranking footmen, she made her presence known. "You. Girl."

Sheila spun around and immediately dropped a curtsey. "Yes, Your Ladyship?" Inwardly, she was quaking with fear that she might be punished for the incident at the buffet after all.

"My cloak is in need of attention," Diana announced in the most imperious tone she could manage. "The maids upstairs are all occupied. You must see to it."

"But...m'lady..." Sheila stammered. "I--I couldn't--"

"Are you suggesting I search the entire house for assistance?" Diana demanded.

"Certainly not, Lady Silverbridge." Greeves stepped forward and plucked the tray from Sheila's hands. "She would be most honoured to assist you."

Sheila recovered enough to curtsey again. "I would that, Your Ladyship."

"My cloak is in a chamber upstairs." Diana turned and started back towards the stairs. It took much willpower not to turn and check that the maid was following her. Ladies never did such things--they simply assumed the servant would do as they were bid. Indeed, Diana had never felt the need to check on a servant's whereabouts before this moment.

They reached the first chamber and Diana looked inside to be certain it was empty. It was, so she stepped inside. "Pray close the door behind you."

Sheila did as she was told. "Shall I see to your cloak now, Your Ladyship?"

"That's completely unnecessary, Miss O'Brien."

The blue eyes widened. "Faith, m'lady...h-how is it y'knowing me name?"

"Lord Rayner told me," Diana replied as she removed her mask. "I believe you're more familiar with him as Hank Grayson, however."

Sheila's colour drained until the pale freckles across the bridge of her nose stood out. "Mother Mary, surely you aren't tellin' me that Mr. Grayson is a--"

"Viscount, actually," Diana finished.

"Your Ladyship, I beg you...pray do not tell His Grace. I swear I meant no offence by speaking to Mr.--to the Viscount. On me dear mother's grave, I swear--"

"Miss O'Brien, please," Diana held up her hand until Sheila fell silent. "Let me assure you that you have offended no one. Quite the opposite, in fact. Lord Rayner met your brother belowstairs and--"

"Me brother?" Sheila gulped.

"Yes. Lord Rayner said his name was Bobby."

"Mrs. Middlebar has been looking for a reason to turn me out. If she should hear that Bobby is me brother--"

"Then we just won't mention it to anyone, will we?" Diana smiled reassuringly. "When Lord Rayner discovered you were employed here, he asked Bobby to get a message to you."

"Faith, t'would be easier for Bobby t'make pigs fly."

"Exactly what I told him," Diana replied, then laughed. "Well, perhaps not _exactly._ "

Sheila felt some of her trepidation leave her at the sound of the pleasant laugh.

Diana noticed that the maid had relaxed a bit and hoped her next words wouldn't send Sheila into another panic. "I told Lord Rayner it would be much easier for me to get a message to you than Bobby, so here I am."

Sheila hesitated a few moments before asking-- "What is the message, Your Ladyship? If you please."

"He would like to see you again. He wants to arrange a meeting."

Sheila's jaw dropped. "Is he daft? Tha's not possible--not in a million years!"

"On the contrary," Diana grinned. "Not only is it possible, but I'm here to see that it happens."

Sheila had heard that the Fancy were an odd lot with strange notions, and Diana's words confirmed it. "Beggin' your pardon, Your Ladyship, but it cannot be done. His lordship would be a laughingstock fer stoopin' t'speak to a housemaid and I'd be packed off for forgettin' me place."

"But Lord Rayner won't be talking to a housemaid."

Sheila's trepidation was vanishing quickly, replaced by exasperation. "How can he not be, if that's what I am?"

"He could speak to another guest at the Masque and no one would give it a second thought."

What Diana was suggesting was so unheard of that it took several minutes for Sheila to comprehend it. "Faith, 'tis a madwoman you are."

Diana started laughing so heartily at her proclimation that Sheila forgot to be worried by her own impertinence. "You don't know the half of it Miss O'Brien," Diana giggled. "Now please say you'll allow me to dress you up for the Masque. It would be such fun."

Diana's friendly manner, the idea of wearing pretty clothes to a ball and--most of all--the prospect of seeing Hank Grayson once more made for a combination too tempting to resist. However, Sheila's common sense forced her to protest. "If someone should discover me--"

"No one will," Diana assured her.

"But if someone should. Faith, Your Ladyship, I can't be losin' my position here."

"I give you my word," Diana promised. "That if you should lose your post, I'll have others for you and your brother before the day is out. You can work for me or the Countess of Wylde, my guardian. And if he needs a posting, I'm certain I could find one for that other boy as well... I'm afraid I can't recall his name."

"Your Ladyship is very kind, but--" Sheila broke off and stared hard at Diana. "How did y'come t'know Preston?"

Diana started laughing again. "Do you recall the night you met Lord Rayner? When he was joined by the Marquis and a funny little man in a coat and hat that were too big?"

"Aye." Sheila hesitated, "S-Surely ye can't be sayin' that was yerself?"

"The very same," Diana grinned. "So you see, I have a knack for masquerading. Oh, do say yes, Miss O'Brien! Even if you think me a madwoman."

Sheila couldn't keep from smiling--Diana's enthusiasm was infectious. "Faith, o'course I will. 'Tis bad luck t'argue wi' a madwoman, it is."  


*******

  


Death glided carefully through the glittering crowds, moving swiftly but unobtrusively so that he was always able to keep Sir Galahad and the cat-goddess with his sight, if not his hearing. By the time the cat left the ballroom, Death was able to discern that arrangements were being made for Sir Galahad to meet with someone--most likely the little Paddy's sister.

Behind his mask, Vengrave allowed himself a wide smile. Everything was falling nicely into place with little effort on his part. Apparently Fate approved of his plans for the Avenging Angel. Summoning a footman, he called for paper and ink and quickly wrote out two notes--one to be delivered to his coachman and the other to the Avenging Angel.  


*******

  
_East corner of the garden at two o'clock._

Hank couldn't hold back his grin as he refolded the note and tucked it inside his glove. Apparently Diana had been unable to find Miss O'Brien a costume and decided to alter the plan slightly.

A quick check with one of the gold clocks revealed that there were still twenty-five minutes before his secret meeting, but Hank decided to make for the east corner of the garden immediately. Although he had only been back in the ballroom for little over an hour, he was already feeling uncomfortably warm in his helmet and velvet tunic and the idea of waiting in the cool night air was appealing. With any luck, Miss O'Brien would arrive early as well and they'd have a few extra minutes together.

He made his way towards the door that were opened out onto the garden, giving only the briefest of smiles and replied to those that spoke to him as he passed. He was only a few feet from the house, however, when the Marquis fell into step beside him and Hank had to struggle to keep the frown off his face. Normally, he didn't mind Eric's company, but tonight the Marquis had been barely civil to him and at the moment he had for more interesting company on his mind. Unfortunately, he still hadn't mastered the art of politely sending away anyone he didn't want to see, so he only said-- "It's a fine night."

"Are you referring to the ball or the weather?"

There was a decided chill in Eric's voice that gave Hank a moment's pause before he replied-- "I was talking about the weather, actually, but your grandfather's ball is the most incredible thing I've ever seen."

"Then I trust you are enjoying yourself."

The words were polite, but the tone was just the opposite. It was a habit of speech Eric had whenever he was annoyed or irritated, and Hank had grown to despise it. It set his teeth on edge. "Of course. I'm enjoying myself immensely. It's very kind of you to inquire, Lord Blackmoor." He wasn't able to imitate Eric's tone successfully, but was gratified to see Eric's surprise at being addressed by title rather than name.

"Then you are merely catching your breath out here, are you?"

Hank decided that the only way to get rid of Eric quickly was to tell him what he was doing in the garden, but knew it would be disastrous to let on _with whom._ "If you must know, I'm to meet someone, so if you'll excuse me--"

Eric caught his arm before he could turn away. "I won't have it, Rayner. It's a disgrace."

 _Dear Lord, he knows!_ "Really, it's nothing to concern yourself with, Eric," Hank said with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

"Not my concern?" Eric sneered. "Do you think I, or anyone else, wants to see such a fine lady bound to an ignorant, clod-hopping Colonial?"

Hank bristled under the insult, but managed to bite down on his anger in order to find out who Eric was talking about. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. The lady I'm to meet is certainly not being forced to--"

"I know very well that Lady Silverbridge finds you an entertaining novelty, although I'm certain she will grow bored with your company in time. In the mean time, I will not allow you to compromise her by taking advantage of her kindness to such a beef-witted chaw bacon."

Relief that Eric didn't know about Sheila was combined with amusement at Eric's name-calling. Hank knew he was being insulted, but the words Eric used were so unfamiliar that he was hard-pressed to keep the smile of his face. "Eric, you don't have anything to worry about. I have no intention of courting Lady Silverbridge. I know how much you like her--"

Eric went pale as though Hank had levelled the rudest put-down at him. "Do you presume that I'm worried that Lady Silverbridge might prefer a cork-brained gapeseed such as you to myself? You take too much upon yourself, Rayner. She and I have both endured your ignorant, near-barbaric ways as kindly as possible, and now you presume to have the Lady endure an attachment to someone whose parents were little more than dirt-scratching, manure-covered rabble?"

"That's enough, Blackmoor," Hank's pale blue eyes blazed with anger. "My parents were good people and I won't have you or anyone else speaking of them like that. Do it again and you'll have more trouble than you know how to handle."

Startled though he was by Hank's outburst, Eric refused to let his surprise show. "Are you calling me out?"

"Your talking about a duel, aren't you?" Hank replied hotly, unable to keep his temper in the face of such an affront to his deceased parents. "Well, I see no reason to bother with that. If you don't curb your tongue, I'll lay you out flat with my bare fists--right here."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Why not? According to you, I have no manners whatsoever. But--also according to you--Lady Silverbridge seems to prefer me in spite of it--or perhaps because of it."

Eric had not reply for that. Instead, his features hardened into granite and he turned to go back into the house. "You are not gentleman, sir. And you will regret those words."

Hank remained where he was for a few minutes after Eric left, his temper gradually fading into regret. Eric, despite his pompous ways, had the makings of a good friend, but after the harsh words, continued friendship would be all but impossible. With a sigh, he put the thought to the back of his mind and continued on his way through the garden.  


*******

  


There he was. Alone. Unaware of the iron gate hidden by the high hedgerows and the coach that was waiting just beyond it. Unsuspecting that he would soon be immortalized by a master.

* * *

Diana ushered Sheila to a quiet nook near the ballroom doors and took a few minutes to survey her work one last time. One last touch to a ribbon here and a curl there and she gave a quick nod of satisfaction. "I vow, if Lord Rayner doesn't keep a wary eye out, you'll get stolen away by some other young swain right under his nose."

Sheila's eyes widened in alarm. "M'lady, I don't want another swain. Mother Mary, I knew this was madness..." she turned to rush back, but Diana caught hold of her sash.

"I meant no implication, Miss O'Brien," Diana assured her. "'Twas just my way of saying how well you look. Did you not see your reflection in the mirror?"

"Faith, and I'm still not believin' twas me," Sheila admitted.

Diana grinned and looked over Sheila's costume again. For something that had been assembled from abandoned or scavenged bits and pieces, it was surprisingly beautiful. The hardest part had been convincing Sheila to trade her black bombazine for a simple white muslin frock that most ladies of the ton would have turned up their noses at. After that had been put on, the fun began for Diana who felt as though she were once again raiding her mother's wardrobe to make fanciful costumes as she used to do in Freetown. A light-green silk mask, several pieces of floating tulle, innumerous pale green and blue ribbons, and every plant or flowers she could find had transformed the pretty but undeniably Irish maid into a faerie sprite of incandescent beauty. In this case, her red hair only added to the image of something charming and not quite of this world. "It suits you so well, it's as though you were meant to play one of the fey folk."

A smile tugged at Sheila's lips, "And I'm hopin' I don't offend any of them by doin' so."

Diana chuckled, "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery." She adjusted the ivy in Sheila's hair one last time, "And speaking of imitation, if you've picked up any tricks for mimicking the way we speak, now would be the time to put that to use."

"Find me any of the help who hasn't tried to imitate lords and ladies," Sheila laughed.

"I highly doubt that Lord Blackmoor would recognize you, but if you do see him approaching, alert me at once and we'll affect a retreat," Diana waited until Sheila nodded. "Very well, then. We have nearly a half-hour before the unmasking. Let's introduce you to Society, shall we?" Then she swept the Irish housemaid down the hall and through the ballroom doors.  


*******

  
Hank shifted impatiently and strained his eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of fiery red hair despite the  
darkness. He knew that it would likely be difficult for Sheila to get away from her duties, and despite  
the note, there was always the possibility that she would not appear at all. Still, the clock hadn't struck  
midnight yet, and even once it did, Hank had every intention of waiting for some time afterward, just in  
case.

He was grateful for Sheila's wisdom in choosing the spot she did. While several couples were out strolling in the garden and a few more had snuck off into some of the denser shrubbery, no one had ventured as far as the garden wall, likely because a gate to the street was nearby. It was far enough away from the lights of the manor that his brilliant white costume did not easily catch the eye and no one bothered him. Even if he hadn't been waiting anxiously for a pretty Irish girl, he would have been happy to spend time here in peaceful surroundings, away from the noise, lights and heat and surrounded by the scent of growing things--one of the things he missed most in the City.

The barest rustle of fabric interrupted his musings and Hank listened hard, hoping to learn the direction it had come from. The rustle came again and he immediately started moving to his right, "Miss O'Brien?" A high-pitched giggle from behind him made him freeze and then spin around. He had barely registered that such a piercing squeal was not likely to come from a lilting Irish voice when a strong arm encircled his neck. Before he could make a sound, a hand covered his nose and mouth with a wet cloth. Drawing a deep breath to yell, Hank instead inhaled a sickly sweet smell that made him dizzy. There was only time for a single, weak tug at the velvet-encased arm before darkness overtook him.  


*******

  
Bobby jogged past the numerous coaches on his way back to the house after telling Lady Cosair's  
coachman to pull his rig up around to the main doors to pick up his mistress and her daughter. The  
coaches for the MacArran Masque lined Park Lane from Grosnover Street all the way to Oxford Street  
and were also parked down many of the lanes. It was the fifth time he'd been sent out on such an  
errand--the footmen had been impressed with his quickness after the first time, and sent him out again  
and again. Preston, with his learning that was far more advanced then the average page, was sent to  
deal with more difficult commissions that involved money or letters.

Bobby had been running hither and thither on the simple errands all night and had rarely enjoyed himself so much. Young people were obviously unusual at Kelthorne, and both he and Preston had manners enough that most of the staff had taken a liking to them. So what was constant dashing about when in between errands the footmen would joke with him and Cook would sneak him sweetmeats? True, he had to avoid Mrs. Middlebar, but that was easily done with little effort on his part. 

He decided to cut down Green Chapel Street into Kelthorne's back garden to save even more time, but as he approached the gate, he noticed an oddly-shaped figure on the street side of the wall. The lamplight, combined with light from a nearly-full moon cut through the fog enough for Bobby to see glittering white and silver clothing along with pale blond hair. Recognizing Hank and realizing the American was unconscious, he hurried forward to see if there was anything he could do to help his new friend--perhaps the man dragging him needed to find a surgeon or apothecary. Bobby stopped in puzzlement when the man opened the door to a coach himself--for a coachman to remain on the box rather than opening the door was very strange, indeed. With and impatient curse, the man removed the white mask he wore and tossed it into the coach, and Bobby froze.

It was the devil-man who had grabbed him in Covent Garden.

Instinctively, Bobby drew closer to the wall so he was hidden by the shadows and watched as the man shoved Hank's limp form into the coach and climbed in after him. Bobby was torn between running straight for the man to save Hank as Hank had saved him, and rushing into Kelthorne to raise the alarm. Then the coach began moving and the decision was taken out of Bobby's hand. If he let the coach out of his sight, no one would know who the man was or where he had taken Hank. Taking a deep breath, he ran silently after the carriage, and with an ease that came from two years practice, he jumped onto the footman's stand at the back without the slightest jar to the coach.  


*******

  


For what was likely the thousandth time, Sheila touched her silk mask to be certain it was still in place. It was all she could do not to keep hiding herself behind Lady Silverbridge. What she was doing was so unheard of that she hadn't the faintest idea how to behave, although her co-conspirator was handling the situation with remarkable aplomb. Of course, Lady Silverbridge seemed to have the ability to handle any situation with aplomb. A horribly irresponsible part of Sheila was rather hoping they _were_ discovered, in which case she would likely end up in the employ of the unusual but altogether jolly Lady herself. Sheila felt a friendliness for her that went far beyond the normal gratitude for a noble's kindness, so much so that she had taken to thinking of her as "Diana" instead of the proper "her ladyship." It mitigated her disappointment that they had not found the handsome Mr. Grayson yet, despite Diana's insistence that he was looking for her.

However, friendliness or no, Sheila knew she _did_ have responsibilities that she should not be risking and that meant under no condition could she be present at the unmasking. She told Diana so, and predictably, Diana tried to argue the point.

"Truly, Miss O'Brien, I don't think Lord Blackmoor or His Grace would recognize you, even _without_ your mask. As you said--you are quite a different creature."

"Aye, and one of your creation," Sheila said with a grateful smile. "But the staff have far sharper eyes than th'quality. Faith, and we have to, don't we? T'would be as much of a dust-up if one of them recognized me for m'self."

"But we haven't found Lord Rayner yet," Diana protested, although her tone indicated that she knew Sheila was right. Her mouth tucked down in disapproval, "I must say, this is most disagreeable of him after being so eager to speak to you."

Sheila's heart warmed at the words. "Sure, and it's a sad thing after all your work. But I thank ye for such a grand adventure, m'lady."

Diana grinned in spite of herself. "You're determined to go back, then?"

"I am."

"Very well. We can go--"

"Oh no, your ladyship!" Sheila shook her head firmly. "Y'must stay for the unmaskin'. Sure, and don't I know this grand house well enough to find my own way?"

"Are you certain?"

"That I am. Ye'd best be findin' Lord Blackmoor. I daresay he's been pinin' for ye the whole time ye've been wi'me." Both young women exchanged mischievous smiles. "My thanks again, Lady Silverbridge."

"My pleasure, Miss O'Brien," Diana returned in the same manner as she had used to greet the Countess of Tardosh.

Years of practice being invisible meant Sheila was easily able to slip through the crowd and out the ballroom doors. Everyone was moving to the ballroom for the unmasking, and Sheila had to rush through several deserted corridors, terrified the entire time she would meet with a footman or another maid. She was nearly running by the time she made it make to the little used chamber Diana had requisitioned and rapidly discarded her faerie costume for her black bombazine. 

Within minutes, she was back at her duties as though she had never been gone, except for a twist of green and blue ribbon around her wrist that was neatly hidden by the sleeve of her dress. She knew no one would miss it, and she felt compelled to have a reminder of her "grand adventure."  


*******

  


Eric took off his mask at the same time as everyone else, although as one of the hosts his identity had hardly been a mystery. Several people around him, though--mostly mamas and daughters who viewed him as a potential husband--pretended great surprise and admiration. He returned the favor automatically, complimenting the mamas and feigning pleased shock at discovering with whom he had been waltzing during the course of the evening. As he spoke all the proper words, though, his eyes were searching the crowd for either a brightly spangled dress topped by velvet cat's ears or a ridiculously white tunic.

Finally he spotted the slim figure in the glittering costume, pleased to note that she was nowhere near the doors to the garden. His satisfaction increased when she noticed him and her expression brightened, indicating she had been searching for him as well. As Eric watched, Diana touched the tip of a finger to her closed fan, then took it in her left hand and unfurled it. No young blood of the ton was ever able to keep track of all the signals of a fan, but this one was well-known to mean--"Come over to me, I wish to speak with you." Eric took his leave of the ladies around his as quickly as he could without causing offense and made his way across the ballroom to Diana's side.

"You Masque is a great success," Diana smiled at him as he approached.

"It always is," Eric replied. "The Fates would not dare offend my grandfather by allowing otherwise."

"I wish to ask whether you had seen Lord Rayner recently. He has not left, has he?"

Annoyance that Diana was asking about Hank disappeared under the happy realization that she obviously had not been meeting him in the garden. "I last saw him near half-past eleven," he replied truthfully, although he did not say where.

Diana frowned, "Odd. I last saw him well before that--when we were waltzing."

"Was there something you wished to discuss with him?"

Diana pursed her lips, obviously irritated with the missing viscount. "I'll have any necessary words with him some other time."

Eric raised his eyebrows. That did not bode well for Hank. Now that he was fairly certain that Hank had not met Lady Silverbridge in the garden, he could almost feel sorry Hank and the setting down he would undoubtedly receive.

Almost.

"Then if you are not otherwise engaged, my lady," Eric made a splendid bow. "May I ask for the first unmasked waltz."

Diana decided to put disappointment at the failure of her plan aside for now. "My Lord Blackmoor, I can think of nothing that would raise my spirits better," she smiled as she held out her hand.  


* * *

Bobby tried to spot anything familiar as the coach rolled through the murky darkness. He didn't know how long they'd been moving before he finally realized they were approaching the Pall Mall. He only had a moment's relief before they'd crossed in and he was once again trying to track strange side streets.

When the coach finally stopped, Bobby glanced around hoping to recognize the street. He didn't, but he did have the notion that Westminster Bridge was nearby and he knew they had driven along St. James Park, which narrowed things down slightly.

Bobby managed to restrain himself as the devil-man took Hank out of the coach. He knew that even if the coachman remained on the box rather than helping again, seeing his employer being attacked--even a pint-sized attack--would prompt him to descend. The coach effectively blocked the devil-man's actions from the street and when he reached his front step, carrying Hank over his shoulder, he turned back to the carriage.

Involuntarily, Bobby shrank further into the shadow provided by the coach's wheel.

"I shall not require you again this evening."

"Aye, m'lord," the coachman grunted.

The coach began rolling again and Bobby jumped off as silently as he'd jumped on. The devil-man had disappeared with Hank into the townhouse, so Bobby was able to crouch near the building as he considered his next action. Initially, he'd planned to run back to Kelthorne Hall and raise the alarm, but they were so far away that he knew Hank could well be dead by the time he reached help.

Bobby decided he'd best return Hank's favour and began inspecting the entire house to find the best way in. He would never have imagined at all the sneaking about the Costers' he'd been forced to do would come in so handy.

* * *

"Congratulations, Lord Blackmoor," Diana smiled as Eric escorted her off the dance floor after the completion of the last dance of the night. "I vow, but this ball will be talked about for weeks afterward."

"No doubt," Eric agreed, glancing around at the guests that had thinned out considerably after one a.m. There were still plenty of people, but it was nowhere near the crush it had been early on. "I daresay my grandfather will be gone from London far sooner than talk of this rout will."

"Your grandfather? He is leaving London?"

"He doesn't care for town," Eric explained. "He only comes to plan the Masque and leaves a few days afterward."

"I shall be sorry to see him go," Diana said. "And Lady Wylde even moreso."

"I shall be sorry as well," Eric lied. "But after this, my days shall be my own once again?"

"Is His Grace so terribly strait-laced, then?" Diana teased.

"He has been known to ring a fine peel over me for some of my actions," Eric returned with as much good humor as he could. He wanted to change to subject to something more pleasant and was about to tell Diana that late-hour balls agreed with her when he saw her sink into a graceful curtsey. Turning he saw Lord and Lady Ravenwood had joined them and made his bow, as well.

Once protocol was out of the way, Lord Ravenwood spoke first. "Fine crush, Blackmoor. Lady Silverbridge, I meant to tell you what fine looks you are in this evening, but this is the first I'm managed to speak to you."

"Having the sun shine on one at anytime is most welcome, my lord," Diana returned.

Lady Ravenwood smiled at her, "Have you had the chance to sharpen that fine wit even further on Lord Rayner this evening?"

Diana's eyebrow rose questioningly, but her expression remained pleasant. 

"We're about to make our farewells and leave, but I vow, I cannot find Henry anywhere," Lady Ravenwood explained. "Have you seen him?"

Eric and Diana exchanged glances. "I haven't seen him since before midnight," Eric admitted, looking a bit puzzled himself by this revelation.

"Nor I," Diana added, although she looked more miffed that perplexed.

"Most peculiar," Ravenwood frowned. "Usually the lad is quite ready to leave by midnight or one, and here its well after three."

"You don't suppose--" Eric broke off when everyone made their manners again. This time, his grandfather stood behind him.

"An excellent crush, Your Grace," Lady Ravenwood said.

MacArran nodded to acknowledge the compliment. "What's this I hear about you misplacing young Rayner?" he asked, having come to like the young American far more than most of his grandson's friends.

"So it would seem, Your Grace," Diana replied. "Neither myself nor Blackmoor, nor the Earl and Countess have seen Lord Rayner since before midnight."

"Most odd."

"It truly is," Lady Ravenwood agreed. "Especially for Henry who--not to besmirch your fine ball--has never been fond an extreme crush."

"Has he left?" MacArran asked. "Either to another engagement or to return home?"

"No one else plans a ball on the night of your Masque, sir," Lady Ravenwood pointed out with a smile. "He may have gone home, but it is not like him not to tell us."

"Perhaps he could not find you in the crowd," Diana said.

"True enough."

"Shall I have my butler make enquiries of the remaining guests, my lady?" MacArran asked.

"That would be very kind of you, Your Grace. This is most unlike Henry."

"Have a footman or two check some of the rooms," Ravenwood suggested with a chuckle. "At one ball we found him reading in the library."

"Perhaps he's dozed off," MacArran raised his hand to summon Houghton, who appeared at his side immediately. "Ask the staff here and about to see if anyone has seen Lord Rayner."

"At once, Your Grace," Houghton bowed.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Houghton," a footman who was passing with a tray of empty glasses stopped and bowed as well.

"What is it, Charles?" Houghton asked.

"I delivered a message to his lordship--Lord Rayner, that is--from a gentleman in the card room just before midnight. I found his lordship in the corridor outside the ballroom and so gave it to him there."

"Do you know who the sender was?" MacArran asked.

"No, Your Grace, he was wearing his mask. His lordship seemed happy to receive it, though."

"The card room, you say?" Ravenwood mused. "Not like the lad, but maybe he decided to go off for a night of--" he suddenly remember the presence of an unmarried female and coughed slightly. "Well, perhaps they decided to go off to one of the clubs in St. James."

Diana's lips twitched, but she didn't comment.

"Did Lord Rayner send a reply?" Lady Ravenwood asked.

"No, m'lady. He seemed rather eager to be on his way."

"Thank you, Charles," MacArran nodded and waved that Charles could go along. "You may go as well, Houghton, we shall not be needing you after all."

"Very good, Your Grace." Both butler and footman bowed once more and went back to their duties.

"I daresay Henry made some new friends tonight," Lady Ravenwood said with a smile. "Most unusual for him not to leave word with us, but I suppose we shall be able to forgive him. Thank you for your help, Your Grace."

"My pleasure, Lady Ravenwood," MacArran bowed over her hand. "My thanks for adding to the ball with your beauty." He nodded to her husband, "Ravenwood."

Another round of bows and curtsies, and the Ravenwoods left for their waiting coach. MacArran nodded to Diana, "I believe I shall speak once more to Lady Wylde before you and she depart for the evening. Goodnight, Lady Silverbridge."

"Goodnight, Your Grace. I greatly enjoyed my first MacArran Masque."

"We shall endeavor to see it is not your last."

It was only when she was alone with Eric that Diana allowed her pleasant expression to darken into a scowl. "This was unbearably rude of Rayner. To leave without word to anyone."

"He's not exactly familiar with Society," Eric said, wondering if he sounded as insincere as he felt. He was worried that Diana's anger was the result of Hank promising to meet her and then not doing so.

Diana huffed slightly. "I'll not bother with _his_ society much longer unless he has a most excellent apology and explanation for his behaviour."  


*******

  


Preston yawned and tried to pick up his pace as he trotted back from summoning the last few coaches to the front of Kelthorne. All the remaining coaches were now within sight of the door and no one was needed to alert the coachmen that their individual employers were ready to depart. Preston was very glad of that, for Bobby had stopped being sent out for coaches shortly after midnight and Preston actually hadn't seen Bobby since they ate in the kitchen. He didn't give it much thought, however, because in such a big house on such a busy night that was hardly unusual.

He met Sheila, someone else he hadn't seen since early in the evening, at the top of the backstairs and smiled tiredly at her. Her eyes widened in alarm. "Faith, lad! Haven't they let ye start back t'Covent Garden?"

"Not tonight," Preston said around another yawn. "Mr. Houghton showed us a room off the kitchen where they've put pallets for us. We are to stop here tonight in case we are needed in the morning."

"And you'll not be in bad with Mr. Kell for it?"

Preston frowned in bewilderment for a moment, having never actually heard Kell referred to as "Mister." When he realized whom she was referring to, he couldn't repress a snort. "That's not likely. And it would be worth it, what with the breakfast Cook is likely to supply us."

Sheila smiled in return. "And Bobby knows of it, then?"

"He was there when Kelthorne told us. I haven't seen him much, but then, they've been keeping him busy. I may be bigger, but he's much quicker on his feet."

"Aye, that he is," Sheila agreed. "We must get back to work then. I'll wish you a good night, Preston."

"And you," Preston smiled, the meeting having given him the pleasant boost necessary to finish his remaining duties with renewed vigor.

* * *

By the time the lights in the townhouse were extinguished, Bobby had abandoned his original plan to crawl in through the coal hole. He had gotten a bit big to climb in very easily and there was always the risk of getting stuck. When he spotted a half-open window on the second floor, Bobby decided it would be much easier to climb the intricate iron scroll work that decorated the townhouse's exterior.

He was quite right. With the help of a nearby tree, Bobby went up the side of the townhouse like a monkey. In no time at all, he was sitting on the window ledge, peering into a very dark room. The room was so dark that Bobby had to feel his way inside and make his way slowly across the room in search of a lamp or even just matches. The barest hint of moonlight that trickled in through the window was enough for him to make out that the odd shapes that filled the room were not furniture, but was of little actual help. Finally he came across a flat surface that, wonder of wonders, held a lamp with its own cache of matches built in.

Bobby took a deep breath, praying that the devil-man was out of range, struck the match and lit the lamp. For several long moments, he could only stand, mouth agape, at the tomb he had illuminated. It was several long minutes before Bobby could take in what he was seeing as real. Living in Covent Garden, he was no stranger to death--even multiple deaths, but this was...

This was something more than death.

Light was not supposed to glisten off the skin of the dead. Open eyes were not supposed to glitter. People never died in such poses.

Now he knew for certain this man was a devil. Who else would do what he had done? For young and uneducated though he was, Bobby recognized the room for what it was.

A celebration of Death.

Was this what the devil-man had intended for him? Was this what was intended for Hank?

Bobby didn't realize how badly he was shaking until he tried to take a step away from the desk he'd been leaning on. Stiffening his knees as well as his resolve, he began to cross the room, leaving the lamp behind on the desk for fear of dropping it. He was halfway across the room when a sound from the hall outside the door made him jump. Stumbling across a white ankle, he tipped into several of the bodies. 

Dead eyes stared straight at him.

Stiff fingers clutched at his clothes.

Every manner of death-throe expression met his horrified eyes.

Scrambling madly even as the footsteps came ever closer, Bobby forgot about Hank and only knew that he did not want to see what was on the other side of that door. He dove for the window and launched himself through, ignoring the schoolwork ladder in the hopes of catching a tree branch and putting as much distance between himself and the charnel house behind him. He fell some ways before he caught a branch, which bent somewhat before breaking and depositing him painfully on the ground.

Although winded, Bobby was up and running as soon as he got his feet under him. It wasn't until he recognized the familiar surroundings of Covent Garden that he slowed down. In turn, the moment he slowed down and his blind panic lifted, he realized that his right ankle would not support him. He leaned against a filthy brick wall and tried to calm the horrible thoughts that were rushing through his head, grateful for the familiar danger of thieves and pickpockets that currently surrounded him.

He knew making it to Kelthorne Hall now was out of the question, but perhaps...yes, in the morning, if he still could not walk well, he would take money from his precious stash and hire a ride to Kelthorne to alert everyone. All he had to do was rest his ankle a bit first and he would continue on his way.

Bobby looked around for a likely doorway and realized he was close to the window that would let him into Preston's room beneath old Kell's shop. Desperate for somewhere familiar enough to feel safe, Bobby crawled along the broken cobblestones until he was able to get inside. Knowing Preston would not begrudge him the soft bed, Bobby collapsed onto it and waited for his ankle to stopped throbbing so excruciatingly. 

With minutes, he had fallen into a deep, deep sleep, exhausted by pain and terror.  


*******

  


"Whatever or whoever that was, my portrait room is empty now," Vengrave told the wide-eyed, struggling figure bound to his worktable. "Perhaps it would be best if I did not leave the window open, but the night air is so good for my creations. Their natural medium, you might say."

He picked up a heavy book and began turning the pages slowly. "But now there is a decision to make," he mused, stopping from time to time to read. "What is the most appropriate death for an angel?"

* * *

Preston cracked one eye open to check on the angle of the sun and sat up quickly at the site of his unfamiliar surroundings. He glanced around frantically, then the sleepiness cleared from his mind and he recalled his job at Kelthorne Hall. He immediately glanced at the other pallet in the small room, but frowned when he found it empty. Having fallen asleep only seconds after his head hit the comfortable straw mattress, he hadn't heard Bobby come in. 

Although it had only been a few hours since all the servants had retired, and the sun had only started to rise, Preston wasn't terribly surprised that Bobby was already up and about. He stretched and yawned, very tempted to return to his comfortable bed until the rest of the staff was up and about, but knew that being a layabout wouldn't earn him a place in a big house. 

Propelled by that and the thought of breakfast, he rose and donned the few items of clothing he'd discarded before going to sleep the night before. Having made himself as neat as possible, he wandered out of the small room and into the kitchen immediately next door, where a lone scullery maid was the only other person up. She was struggling with a full coal hod she had brought from the cellar, and Preston hurried to help her, marvelling that she could lift it at all--she was even smaller than Bobby.

"Thankee," she smiled shyly at him and tossed her black hair back over her shoulder.

"Have you been up long?" he asked her.

"Here'n about a half-hour," she returned. "And rushin' t'get all ready for Cook."

"Have you seen anyone else up?" Preston asked. "Another page? He's new here and only a bit bigger than you and--"

"I know who you mean," her blue eyes were alight with admiration. "Him with gold hair and freckles. Cook was uncommon fond of him."

From her expression, Preston could tell Cook wasn't the only one. "That's him. Have you seen him this morning?"

"Nay, mayhap he's washing in the back garden."

Preston nodded. If there was an opportunity to catch a few moments out of doors, he had no doubt Bobby would want to take advantage of it. "Thank you," he smiled at her. Hurrying past his temporary bed chamber, he slipped through a door that took him to the gardens. Not the magnificent gardens with paths and carefully kept plants, but a small one with a shaggy lawn, a pump and trough, a thriving vegetable garden and several benches. But no cheerful Irish lad, Preston observed as he pumped some water for his morning wash. 

After a quick tour of the grounds by the light of dawn revealed that Bobby was most certainly not outside, Preston went back in. The sunrise had also brought several kitchen maids downstairs, and all were sitting at a table along with the scullery maids, eating a breakfast made from the remains of the ball's grand supper. The little scullery maid smiled at him and moved down to make room for him on her bench, and Preston sat down. "Cook isn't up yet?"

"The fancy won't be up until well on into the afternoon," she replied. "So Cook and the higher staff can have a bit of a lie-in."

"We'll be wakin' them should his lordship call for anything," a kitchen maid with long red hair added shyly.

Preston nodded and fell to the best breakfast he'd had since his mother's passing, pretending not to notice the furtive looks all the maids kept giving him and not to hear the occasional giggle his unaccustomed presence brought. 

The maids rose from the table and began preparing for their days duties, although they urged Preston to stay where he was and keep eating for as long as he was hungry. It didn't take too much convincing before Preston was filling his plate for a second time.

He was just debating whether or not to take yet another helping when Sheila walked into the kitchen. The kitchen maids all murmured respectful greetings--Sheila was a housemaid and of higher status for all that she had helped Cook on one occasion. The little scullery maid brought her a cup of tea as she sat across from Preston. 

"My thanks, Tessie," Sheila smiled at the girl.

The maids immediately went back to their work, leaving Sheila and Preston to as much privacy as could be expected in a large kitchen.

"Good morning," Preston offered when he'd swallowed his mouthful.

"And to you," Sheila returned with another smile. "Where is himself this fine morn?" she asked as she sliced some more bread and cheese. "I was thinking to see him here and havin' a grand rummage in the pantry by now."

"I haven't seen him yet," Preston said. "I was asleep before he got in last night and he was gone when I woke this morning."

Sheila shook her head in resignation. "Up and about already, is he? I'll be askin' Tessa or Varlie where he's scampered off to, then."

"They haven't seen him yet--I asked."

Sheila's teacup halted halfway to her lips. "Faith, are ye sayin' he's not been seen anywhere at all this morn?"

"Not yet."

"And are ye certain he was told t'stay here for the night?"

That gave Preston a moment's pause. "You believe he went back to Covent Garden, then?"

Sheila took another sip of tea before leaving the table. "I'll give the Hall the quick once-over," she told him. "If he's not to be found here--"

"I'll go to Covent Garden to find him," Preston finished.

"Nay, lad. Ye've a fine chance of a position here if ye want it. I'll not be having you risk that."

"Better than you losing yours," Preston countered. "I've a place with old Kell to fall back on. What's more, I most likely could get to Covent Garden and back with Bobby before we're missed."

"'Tis very gallant of you, Preston, but I cannot allow it."

"I must insist upon this, Miss O'Brien," Preston said in his best imitation of a haughty noble, because he knew if he made Sheila laughed, she was more likely to agree.

With a light chuckle, that's exactly what she did. "Very well, then. But there may be no need if I'm after finding me laddie somewhere here and about."

It was not to be, however, and within the half-hour, Preston was crossing St. Martin's Lane and keeping an eye out for the younger boy. He decided to check his room under Kell's shop first, before the apothecary was awake. Even though Covent Garden was already bustling, it would be another hour before Kell emerged from his gin-induced haze.

Slipping silently into the building and down to his room, Preston grinned when he saw Bobby curled up on his straw tick. Gratified that his trek hadn't been in vain and that they would still have time to get back to Kelthorne, Preston crouched down next to his sleeping friend and gave him a small shake. "Good morning, layabout. Did you forget we were to stop at Kelthorne Hall for the night?" Receiving no response, he shook a bit harder and pulled at the thin coverlet. "Bobby, we have to get back to Kelthorne."

Bobby gave a pained moan and tried to curl into a tighter ball.

"Bobby?" Preston frowned, trying to turn him over. "Are you ill? What is it?"

"Divil man...my foot...death house...fell...divil man..."

"Your foot?" Preston focused on the only words that made any sense to him. He flipped back the coverlet and immediately saw that the skin above the right boot discolored--far too discolored for it to be the usual London grime. Quickly Preston unlaced the boot and began to tug it off, but immediately pulled back when Bobby let out a sharp cry. He hesitated briefly, and when Bobby's incoherent mutterings continued, he braced himself to try again. This time, he loosened the boot as much as possible and then pulled it off as gently as possible. Bobby shifted and let out an occasional whimper, but otherwise didn't react. 

Even in the dim light, Preston could see Bobby's foot was badly twisted. That, combined with the near-black bruises covering the skin, convinced Preston that Bobby's foot was broken, likely in more than one place. "Bobby, what's happened to you?" he asked, laying a hand on the damp forehead. Although the skin was clammy, Preston could feel heat radiating from the boy. Bobby kept moaning about the "divil man" and gave no sign he knew Preston was there, which was more worrisome than anything else.

There was nothing else for it, Preston concluded, he had to return and tell Sheila--he knew he couldn't care for Bobby alone. He wasn't even certain how long he would be able to keep Bobby's presence concealed from Kell, although he reckoned they would be safe enough for the next few days.

With that in mind, Preston covered Bobby again, then quickly and quietly made his way up to Kell's shop to collect several things that would be helpful. Listening for Kell the entire time, he rolled all the relatively clean cloth he could find into a bundle and held it under one arm while he also collected a pitcher and basin. He found a half-filled bottle of quinine and was pleased to find a handful of arnica blossoms at the bottom of a small tin. He put the flowers to steep in the kitchen, then returned to Bobby, wrapping the injured foot loosely--he would have to do it again with the arnica when he returned. Making certain that Bobby was warmly covered and as comfortable as possible, Preston slipped back out of the shop and started for Kelthorne at a run.  


*******

  


The majority of the staff were up and about by the time Preston arrived and he was momentarily worried that he wouldn't be able to find Sheila. She had been keeping watch, however, and met him in the kitchen garden. "Faith, was the lad not t'be found in Covent Garden?"

Preston grabbed her hand and pulled he away from the house, so they wouldn't be heard.

Taking her hand was so unusual for the shy apprentice that Sheila was immediately alarmed. "What's happened?"

"I can't say for certain. I don't think Bobby knew what he was saying."

"What?" Sheila clutched at his arm. "Sweet Mary, is he hurt? Where is he?"

"He's in my room under Kell's shop," Preston assured her. "He must have crawled in last night, because--"

" _Crawled_?"

"Or hopped," Preston amended quickly, seeing Sheila turn pale. "One foot is broken, I daresay. And he has a fever--fairly bad, because he was not making sense. I couldn't understand him."

Sheila was untying her apron with swift movements, "You'll be findin' us a hack, then? There's a good lad."

Preston watched as she hurried back into the house and after considering her stricken expression, he decided it would be best to obey. He went back out to the street and hailed a hack, although the driver didn't seem too impressed to find that Preston was one of his customers and had not hailed him on behalf of the Fancy. Sheila was taking rather longer than Preston expected, and it took the lonely sixpence Preston had on him to keeping the irritated driver waiting.

Finally Sheila came rushing through the gate and didn't even bother waiting to be handed into the hack, her cheeks flushed and her expression tight. She gave the driver their direction in such a sharp tone that the man didn't venture the lip he had given Preston.

Preston, for his part, couldn't help but notice the large bag Sheila had tossed into the hack before she'd climbed in herself. "Did Mr. Houghton give you more than your half-day off, then?"

"He did not," Sheila snapped, then sighed. "I had no luck in findin' him and was after askin' Cook t'make me pardon for me, but bedad if Mrs. Middlebar wasn't listenin' just outside the door."

Preston winced. "I suppose you had to do some pretty talking for her to allow you to go."

"Faith, all the blarney in County Cork couldna change that woman's mind," Sheila snorted. "She told me that if I meant t'leave my duties that there was no need to be returning to Kelthorne afterwards."

"She...you've been sacked?"

"Aye," Sheila's lips thinned. "Sure, and although I hate t'use our savin's for home, I'll be able t'tend the lad and not put the burden on you. I've enough t'get by 'til Bobby is better, I'm sure."

"You'd best stop in my rooms at the least until Bobby's fever goes down," Preston said. "Kell never comes in there and I know how to mix some of the things that will help him."

"That's heavenly kind of you, Preston," Sheila gave him a grateful smile. "If you'll be after tellin' me the rate you'll be askin', I'll--"

"Rate?" Preston gave her an indignant look. "You think I'd ask rent of you?"

"Preston, I know you've a kind heart, but--"

"If there's ingredients or food we need that Kell doesn't have, then you may have to see to that," Preston conceded. "And if Kell becomes suspicious, you may want to lay out enough for a bottle or so of gin," he grinned in response to Sheila's raised eyebrows, then sobered again. "But you will have to find a place to work at some time. How will you do it without a recommendation?"

"That's something t'be worryin' about another day," Sheila replied firmly. "Faith, but not a thing means more t'me that seein' me lad well again."

When the hack stopped just down from Kell's shop, Sheila fumbled in her shabby reticule for the fare. She practically threw the coins at the driver before climbing out. Preston barely had time to pick up Sheila's bag before she did, then had to scramble to get to the shop ahead of her. He listened briefly for Kell, then led Sheila down to his room, where Bobby had not moved.

"Macushla!" she whispered, dropping down beside her brother. She laid one hand on his forehead and took his wrist in the other. When Preston knelt as well, Sheila gave him a relieved smile. "Sure, and he's a bit warm, but not near as bad as I was fearin'."

Preston touched Bobby's forehead as well and nodded in agreement. "His fever has gone down from this morning," he said. "But the foot will still need tending. The arnica should be ready by now, so if you'll unwrap his foot, I'll get that ready." He got up and went back into the kitchen, not seeing the fond look Sheila gave him.

Alone with her brother, Sheila smoothed his tousled hair. "Faith, acushla, I've no notion what's happened t'ye, but the saints were surely watchin' over ye when they sent a friend such as Preston."

* * *

The sun was coming up and Baron Vengrave had extinguished his reading candle before he found a death that would suit his Avenging Angel. It was in an obscure medieval text that had itself been translated from an older Latin work. 

"This will take much longer than I anticipated," he said casually. "But there is no doubt it will be well worth the time and trouble. Would you care to hear what the Fates have in store for you?"

The blue eyes that have remained fastened on Vengrave throughout the night now narrowed in renewed fury.

Vengrave studied his expression with amusement, "Very well." He turned back one page and began reading--"' _...for all that angels exist with and within light, before death is possible, this light must be extinguished. Confine the being in darkness without nourishment save for stagnant water to be poured over the face and head at the darkest hour of every night. Seven days in darkness shall extinguish the light within and will render the flesh brittle_.'" He paused long enough to look up and confirm that his prisoner's anger was once again transforming into fear, then went back to the tome. "' _When the flesh has been suitably treated with salt and iron, it shall prove weak enough for the task. Should the executioner not have the strength for the last, a vise must be built and employed..._ ' I'll spare you the instructions for building the vise, as I don't believe I will find it necessary.

"' _...secure the shoulder and all the body lower thereof, then, well-braced, take the head in your hands and rotate it mightily--_ '" Vengrave met the viscount's horrified gaze as he spoke the last words, "' _\--until it is facing opposite from the body._ '" He noted with satisfaction that Hank's anger had vanished. "This will be my best portrait by far. And such an honor for you, as well, to be so immortalized by a master."

* * *

"It truly is appalling, my dear," Lady Wylde said as she joined Diana for a very late breakfast. "That you should look so fresh and lively the morning after such a crush."

Diana laughed at the compliment. "And why should I not when this is the latest I've risen all Season?" She spread a generous amount of marmalade on a scone. "Have you any plans for today?"

Lady Wylde yawned delicately behind her hand. "None at all. Everyone is far too exhausted after the Masque to be out and about today."

"Surely not," Diana blinked. "The Masque was not so much later than most balls."

"I suppose it may be because such preparation is done for the Masque that everyone is rather downcast when it is all over."

Diana considered this as she sipped her tea. "Then the shops on Bond Street may be quieter than usual. It would be an excellent time to do some shopping."

"Take pity on a poor old woman, darling Diana," Lady Wylde gave her a woeful look. "Surely you cannot be dragging me up and down the Pall Mall today."

"You--an old woman!" Diana laughed as she tried to picture it. "But if you wish to stay home and rest, I will simply bring a maid to--" she broke off as a footman entered and approached her.

"Forgive me, my lady," he held out a silver salver. "But this message just arrived from the Countess of Ravenwood."

"Thank you, Charles," Diana took the letter, broke the seal and began scanning the elegant handwriting. "It would appear that Viscount Rayner has still not appeared this morning," she told Lady Wylde as she refolded the note. "And Lady Ravenwood asks if I've heard from him since leaving the Masque."

"I must say this is very bad of Rayner," Lady Wylde set down her teacup. "I would not have thought it of him."

"Nor I," Diana admitted. "He is very fond of Lord and Lady Ravenwood and I can't imagine him doing anything to upset them." Abruptly, she plucked her napkin from her lap and laid it on the table. "I believe I shall forego my shopping excursion and call at Kelthorne Hall."

"Call at Kelthorne?" Lady Wylde was astonished. "The day after the Masque?"

"If anyone is to have news of Lord Rayner, it is Lord Blackmoor," Diana explained as she rose. "I will go change at once. Will you be joining me?"

Lady Wylde eyed her speculatively. "Yes, my dear, I believe I will."

* * *

Hank gave up struggling with his bonds not long after his captor left, and lay still on the table he'd been secured to, trying to make sense of the man's words. All he was certain of was that this was the same man that had tried to steal Bobby O'Brien away in Convent Garden. Hank wondered if this was revenge for his interference and found it strange that the man had not mentioned it.

Instead, the man had spoken of the death of angels and of immortality with a familiarity Hank did not want to dwell on for too long for fear of lapsing into blind panic. The man's references to him as an angel and talk of execution had the ring of mysticism and demonology and made Hank long for Reverend Alfore's bombastic but straightforward sermons that had allowed one to doze off in their simplicity.

When he heard the movement of servants in the rest of the house--he assumed it was a house--Hank was rather grateful for the distraction. He would most definitely be missed today, if he hadn't already been following the Masque, and certainly it would only be a matter of time before someone came looking for him.

_But no one knows where you are. You left word with no one of your plans._

_Except Eric._

_Ah, but he may actually be glad to see the back of you._

Hank sighed and listened to the sound of servants going about their work. It was a noise he had grown so accustomed to since his arrival in London that he actually felt himself being lulled to sleep. He forced himself back to wakefulness by thinking of how strange it was that the servants were going about their business not even knowing that their employer had a prisoner bound and gagged within their midst. The thought occupied him for a time, as did plans for escape, but eventually, the servants took their work to another floor and Hank was left with almost complete silence. That, along with the unleavened darkness, lured him into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Diana was ushered up to the parlor with Lady Wylde, and found that they were not the only people to break tradition by calling at Kelthorne Hall the day after the MacArran Masque--the Earl and Countess of Ravenwood were in the parlour with Lord Blackmoor. As everyone made their bows, Diana couldn't help but notice that Lady Ravenwood had a rather strained expression, although her manner was as cheerful as ever.

"I daresay my visit here has proven unnecessary. I confess I called in the hopes that Lord Blackmoor had news of Viscount Rayner," Diana tried to keep her tone light.

Lady Ravenwood was making the same effort, "I suppose I shall take that as your answer to my note, Lady Silverbridge. But should you hear from Henry--"

"You have my word that I shall alert you at once, Lady Ravenwood."

"Of course, 'tis nothing to worry about, truly," Lady Ravenwood said with a laugh that almost sounded natural. "If I recall correctly, my husband was known to disappear for a day or two before I managed to leg-shackle him."

Everyone laughed politely, as though the Countess' worry were not crystal clear.

"I confess I do not know Lord Rayner terribly well," Lady Wylde admitted. "But he does not strike me as the sort to be interested in kicking up the same larks as most of those young dandies--your fine self excepted, of course, Lord Blackmoor," she finished on a teasing note.

"My gratitude, Lady Wylde," Eric made her an elegant leg in the same manner.

"I daresay we keep forgetting that Henry has been in London--and a Viscount--for only a very short time," Lady Ravenwood said indulgently. "Perhaps he has decided to experience some other amusements. I am making him some allowances."

Diana listened to the conversation with half an ear and turned her attention towards the parlour's open door. Servants were constantly passing it as they went about their duties and Diana hoped to catch sight of Sheila, who, as a house maid, could very well be working on the first floor. Lady Wylde was so absorbed in talking to Lord and Lady Ravenwood that none of them noticed Diana's inattention, so the only one she had to concern herself with was Lord Blackmoor. Eric, however, seemed just as preoccupied as she was, making her wonder how worried about Hank he actually was. 

So Diana made all the necessary replies to the others as she allowed her mind to drift, wondering if perhaps Hank had taken a daring step and eloped with the Irish maid. The idea certainly appealed to her sense of romance and adventure, and she vowed that if it were true, she would forgive both Hank and Sheila on the spot for coming up with such a clever plan. Her common sense was never far from the surface, however, and it told her that neither Hank nor Sheila was the sort to throw such caution to the wind. She realized with dismay that a far more likely scenario was that Sheila had been caught in the Masque costume Diana had foisted upon her and sacked for her utter presumption. Diana hoped that if that were the case Sheila would remember the promise of work, for Diana rather felt that she would like Sheila as a personal maid or even better--a companion with no actual duties.

The part of her mind that was occupied with social niceties snapped her back to the parlour as Lord and Lady Ravenwood took their leave amid promises by all that they would contact the others should Hank be located.

"May I inquire after your grandfather, Lord Blackmoor?" Lady Wylde turned to Eric. "Is he still resting after last night's great success?"

Eric seemed to choke. "It would take more that a ball to keep my grandfather from rising at his usual time. I believe he is in the library seeing to some business before he returns to the country."

"And dare I venture into the library to visit with him?" Lady Wylde asked.

"I believe that would please him greatly," Eric signalled to a passing footman. "James will take you."

"You are very kind," Lady Wylde nodded to Eric, then gave Diana a significant look before following the footman out.

Diana made a mental note to tease Lady Wylde about losing her touch for subtlety. "You've been rather quiet today, Lord Blackmoor. I daresay we should not have intruded the day after the Masque. Lady Wylde told me so, and I likely should have heeded her words."

"Not at all, my lady," Eric assured her with the proper courtesy that Diana knew had been bred into him. "Forgive me for being an inattentive host."

"You are very worried about Lord Rayner, aren't you?" When Eric's startled look answered her question, Diana continued, "I realize this is most unlike Rayner, but this is only the next day. Surely you know of the things youngbloods do..."

"Whether I do or not, I could hardly discuss such things with a lady," Eric seemed amused rather than censorious. "What's more, Rayner never showed the slightest interest in such things."

Diana studied Eric's expression as he fell silent again. "Do forgive me for prying, my lord, but it seems there is still more disturbing you."

"Your perception can be rather unnerving at times, Lady Silverbridge," Eric said with a wry smile. "But you are quite correct. I confess to having a trouble conscience."

Intuition told Diana it would be better not to prod at this point, so she waited silently for him to continue.

He glanced at her briefly before turning to gaze out the window. "I have not told Lord and Lady Ravenwood the circumstances of my last conversation with Rayner. What's more, the only reason I have for not doing so is that my behaviour...is not something I am proud of."

Diana realized she has let her mouth fall open in astonishment and snapped it shut. "Are...may I know what happened?"

"We quarreled and--" Eric sighed and shook his head. "No, that is not true. I met up with Rayner in the garden and heaped insults upon him until he grew angry enough to respond."

"What on earth brought you to such actions?" Diana could hardly believe what she was hearing.

Eric kept his head bowed as he spoke, which told Diana far more than his words did. "The short of it is that I made some accusations about something that was none of my concern and when he refused to answer either way I began insulting his manners, his parents and his homeland."

"Good heavens, Blackmoor, what had you to accuse him of that would prompt such an argument?" Diana demanded. "Never say you suspected Rayner of some sort of wrongdoing."

"Nothing of the sort," Eric ran a hand through his hair. "What I accused him of is of no importance--"

"No importance? But--"

"It had nothing to do with the ensuing quarrel," Eric kept his eye averted. "Indeed, Rayner himself had little to do with it--he only became angry after I'd made some deplorable remarks about his parents."

Diana longed to know what had prompted Blackmoor to verbally attack his friend, but it was obvious he was not about to tell her. "You believe that your words sent Lord Rayner to a gaming hell or a house of ill-repute?"

Eric blinked, then smiled slightly. "I forget, at time, how plain-speaking you can be, my lady. But no, I don't believe that. I have wondered, though, if it may have sent him to book passage."

"Book passage?" Diana frowned. "Whe--back to America? Oh, surely not."

"He still suffers from homesickness now and again. What's more, I know London still intimidates and even frightens him, although he has never spoken of it. It was very badly done on my part."

Diana could see Eric felt terribly guilty for Hank's absence. "Truly, Lord Blackmoor, I believe you are feeling badly because of your quarrel and are imagining things to be much worse than they are."

"Do you think so?" Eric asked politely.

Diana knew by his tone that he was not taking her seriously. "Consider, sir," she said crisply. "Although Rayner might have gone gaming without telling his cousins, he would never travel back to America and not leave word with the Countess. And even if he did not concern himself with anyone's feelings, do you truly believe he would board a ship dressed as Sir Galahad?" 

"You...that's..." Eric laughed slightly, then made another attempt. "You make me feel quite foolish, Lady Silverbridge."

Diana barely stifled a smile. "Forgive me, Lord Blackmoor, that was not my intention."

"Have you any other thoughts on this subject?" Eric asked in a respectful tone that pleased Diana.

"I suppose it is possible that if Rayner was angry with you he may have taken himself off with some of the other young men--perhaps gaming or to kick up some larks...or perhaps even to a house party." She hesitated, but decided to reveal her worries as well, "If he did visit some...less savory places, there is always the chance harm befell him. Truly, if nothing is heard from him by tomorrow I believe you must speak to Lord and Lady Ravenwood about your quarrel. I vow I shall be quite as worried as Lady Ravenwood by then."

When she finished speaking, Eric took her hand and lifted it to his lips. "You have my deepest admiration, my lady. And my deepest gratitude."

He pressed her fingers to his lips and Diana was startled by the tingle that travelled up her arm. She was saved from trying to think of something to say by the return of Lady Wylde. Although Diana was not eager to leave, she was grateful for the chance to collect her suddenly muddled thoughts.

As she and Eric bowed to one another, Diana spoke in a low voice. "Will you call tomorrow and tell me anything you've learned?"

"You have my word," Eric promised.

* * *

Sheila unfolded her legs and stretched them out in front of her. She never would have imagined that simply sitting would prove more tiring than the constant work at Kelthorne Hall, but her legs were cramped from being in one position for hours at a time. She hadn't left Bobby's side since her arrival just after dawn, and it was nearly time for the sun to set again. Bobby hadn't come around fully, but was still as active as ever. It had taken Sheila and Preston both to get the doses of medicine down his throat, only now was he finally sleeping soundly. 

Smoothing back his hair for the thousandth time, Sheila let her palm rest against Bobby's forehead to assure herself that his fever was nearly gone. His breathing was deep and even and for the first time all day, he wasn't writhing or muttering in his sleep. He had mentioned the "divil man" several more times, and from some of his other disjointed words, she and Preston concluded he was speaking of the man that had tried to abduct him nights before. Sheila was surprised and concerned that it still weighed so heavily on his young mind, and when Preston had mentioned that perhaps the injuries were the result of another encounter, she'd felt her insides turn to ice. Preston had taken one look at her expression and began rambling on for several minutes as to why he was likely wrong. Then he had excused himself to go back to his duties for Kell.

Sheila couldn't help but smile when she thought of what a proper host Preston was being. His mother had obviously been gently-bred despite their poverty and had taught her son excellent manners along with his letter. At the moment, Preston was in the kitchen preparing dinner for them. He refused her offer of help partly, he said, because she was a guest, but mostly because although Kell never entered Preston's room, he did come down to the kitchen at times.

No sooner had Sheila reflected on this than she heard the rickety stairs creaking under far heavier footsteps than Preston was capable of. 

"So yer back, are ye?"

Sheila went still at the sound of the belligerent voice. After checking that Bobby was quiet, she strained her ears to hear the conversation on the other side of the wall.

"Aye, sir," came Preston's quiet reply. "Dinner will be ready soon, sir."

"And yesterday's dinner?" Kell demanded. "What of that? Vanishin' like an ingrate! What 'ave you to show for it?"

Preston was silent and Sheila could easily picture him trying to form a reply.

"By rights I should give you a sound thrashing."

Sheila started up, then forced herself to sit again. Revealing her presence could cause more trouble for Preston and would send her and Bobby out onto the street. Biting her lip and twisting her hands into the folds of her skirt, Sheila tried to think of something she could do to help Preston should he need it.

"I feed an' clothe ye an' what do I get out of it? Loafin' about for a whole day when y'should be 'ere..."

It didn't take long for Sheila to realize that Kell didn't expect any answers from his apprentice, and merely wanted to heap abuse on the youth while dinner was being prepared. Preston, for his part, did not seem terribly concerned with Kell's anger and made the appropriate apologies when necessary.

Kell's noisy vitriol was having an effect on Bobby, however. As the angry voice in the kitchen rose, Bobby began to twist and twitch and within minutes, small sounds of distress began to escape him. Sheila leaned down as close as possible so she could keep her voice to the barest whisper. "Hush, acushla, hush. All is well." She kept crooning reassurances to him until he began to quiet again, and was so focused on keeping him that way that she barely noticed when Kell stomped back up the stairs. When Preston stuck his head in and whispered her name, her heart skittered in fear until she realized silence reigned in the kitchen again. "Faith, Preston, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he said with a reassuring grin, although he kept his voice pitched low. "Kell isn't about to do anything to me while I'm making his dinner."

"And afterwards?"

The smile wavered a bit. "Sometimes. But not often. Not nearly as often as some others I've seen." When Sheila still looked skeptical, he added, "Truly, Sheila. He's far too lazy to do much. But the food is ready if you want some, and there's broth for you to try feeding Bobby."

"Will you be after havin' t'go back upstairs again tonight?" she asked.

Preston hesitated, then sighed. "I will. I still have more cleaning to do in the shop."

"Wait." Sheila reached for the bag containing her belongings. She rummaged through until she found a tattered, old-fashioned reticule. She fumbled inside for a moment, then pulled out several coins. "Take this."

"I won't," Preston put his hands behind his back.

"Faith, lad, 'tis the best way."

"The best way for what?" Preston's expression went from stubborn to puzzled.

"T'keep Mr. Kell from gettin' underfoot," Sheila thrust the coins into his hand. "Mother Mary knows I don't approve of drinkin', but if gin will do the trick, then gin he shall have."

Preston looked down at the coins. "This is too much. Half a crown would do it."

"Then only lay out as much as you need and keep the rest for another time," Sheila said. 

"We'll be keeping him gin-soaked until Bobby is well, then?" A smile tugged at Preston's lips.

"We will that," Sheila nodded. "Seems to me yer happier with him that way as well."

"I'll run down to the Hound's Hide now, then." Preston flipped one of the coins up and caught it, then gave the rest back to Sheila. "Best leave the rest here, to be safe." He found his discarded coat and pulled it on. "And it would be better if you get your dinner at once. Kell may come back down for more."

"I will that. Off with ye now, and the sooner ye'll be back." 

* * *

Eric leaned back against the seat cushions of the brougham as Tam drove along Marylebone Road. There were also two powerfully-built footmen perched on the back of the carriage. Normally two footmen were an extravagance reserved for the most formal occasions attended in the glass-quartered coach, but with the recent penchant for youngbloods to go to the worst hells in the most dubious parts of London, Eric wasn't about to take any chances with either his person or his property while he conducted a search for his missing friend.

They rolled to a halt in front of Faro's Tomb, on of the most notorious and popular gaming hells in London. When one of the footmen opened the door, Eric stepped down and eyed the dingy brick building with distaste.

"Will ye want one of us t'gae in wi'ye, m'lord?"

Eric considered this for the briefest moment before shaking his head. "No, Lachlan. Best stay out here with the carriage. Keep your eyes and ears open, however."

"Aye, m'lord," Lachlan took a position in front of the carriage door.

Eric nodded, then walked into the dimly-lit club. Two brawny men stood just inside the door, but since Eric fairly exuded wealth and consequence, they made no move to prevent him from going where he liked. Eric took his time, strolling along the perimeter of the main room, peering through the smoky haze in an attempt to see someone he knew well enough to speak to.

He was hard-pressed to keep the look of disgust off his face as he observed the low company his peers were rubbing elbows with. Although the encroaching mushrooms that were often in his company were of low origins, they at least had pretensions to dignity. These men and women made it obvious that if they could get away with slitting a throat for money, they would just as soon do that as play cards. 

Finally spotting Baron Middleton at the ecarte table, Eric made his way through the crowd to tap him on the shoulder. "A word if you don't mind, Middleton."

The Baron's eyes widened in surprise when he saw Eric, but he nodded in agreement. "Be with you soon as I've finished this hand, Blackmoor."

Eric stepped back towards the wall as the play went on.

When the hand ended, Middleton rose and bowed to the table, despite grumbling from his opponent and the spectators betting on the game. He stepped over to Eric. "I'm in your debt, Blackmoor. These creatures get notoriously troublesome when one tries to leave the game. I've known some kept at the tables until they were well into Dun territory."

Eric didn't say so, but he felt that if one sat at the tables with such company, one deserved to have their pockets cleaned out. "I'm glad to be of assistance. Perhaps you could return the favor by giving me some information?"

"If I can."

"Did you, by any chance, see Viscount Rayner at our Masque?"

"Rayner? 'Course I did. Dressed as Galahad, I believe."

"Did you have occasion to speak to him?"

Middleton frowned in bemusement. "Briefly. He came into the card room and I asked if he cared for a game of Commerce, but he declined and went on his way. Why do you ask?"

"He didn't go out with your set after the Masque, then?"

"Rayner?" Middleton began to laugh. "Lawks, Blackmoor! Rayner go out gaming?! Bloody hell, the colonial is more strait-laced than an Evangelical's grandmother! What would he be doing touring the stews?"

Eric hid his disappointment and annoyance as best he could. "Thank you, Middleton."

As he turned to go, the young Baron stopped him. "I say, Blackmoor, aren't you going to play a hand or two?" Middleton smirked, "Or have you grown as old-maidish as your new friend Rayner?"

"When I _do_ choose to gamble, Middleton," Eric's lip curled in distaste. "You may be sure it is in far better surroundings than this." He touched the brim of his hat--which he had not bothered to remove--and stalked back out of the hell.

Tam was down from the driver's box and waiting beside the brougham door with Lachlan. "Any word, m'lord?"

"None." Eric paused even though Lachlan had opened the door for him. "I'm not entirely certain there is any point in continuing in this area. If Rayner did decide to take up gaming, he would not do it in this style." He glanced at Tam, "We will check along St. James next." 

"Aye, m'lord," Tam nodded and vaulted back up to the driver's box. 

Back in the carriage, Eric could not help but wonder what he hoped to accomplish with his journey through the best and worst gaming houses of London. His instincts told him that Hank would not suddenly indulge in activities of which he had previously disapproved and common sense told him that if Hank _had_ put in an appearance at a club or hell it would have been unusual enough for word of it to be circulated among the ton.

Still, searching was preferable to being at Kelthorne and allowing his guilt and worry to keep him from concentrating on anything else. Rejoining his old set of social-climbers was no longer an option, as their regard meant less now than it did before. After the company of Hank and Lady Silverbridge, false fawning no longer held any appeal.

Eric sighed, wishing he could find something blameworthy in Hank's behaviour so that he would not have to feel so bad about his own. However, the fact remained that even if Hank _had_ been meeting Lady Silverbridge in the garden, he had not wronged Eric in any way. That he had _not_ been meeting her only made Eric feel worse, and Eric was not accustomed to feeling shame or guilt for his actions. As the Marquis of Blackmoor and heir to a duchy, he rarely had occasion to feel anything other than smugly satisfied with himself and the world around him or to put much effort into being admirable. His grandfather's disapproval was merely irritating, but Hank's surprise and anger made his stomach clench uncomfortably. Eric could never be bothered to try meeting his grandfather's standards, but he longed to discover Lady Silverbridge's standards so he could not only meet but surpass them.

With another sigh, Eric glanced out the window at the foggy streets. _Damned troublesome business, this matter of sincere regard._

* * *

Hank sputtered into wakefulness just in time to hear the door shut behind his captor. There was the barest hint of light in the room, but by the time Hank got his eyes fully opened and blinked away the water that had splashed across his face, he was in pitch black darkness again. 

He lifted his head, trying to catch the water that ran down his face and grateful for the few drops he managed to get. He wasn't painfully thirsty as yet, but he suspected that would begin before long. Hunger still was not a concern, but undoubtedly would be in another day. Even the worst winter in New Hampshire wasn't going to be comparable to this, Hank knew. 

Succumbing to sheer frustration for several minutes, Hank raged against his bonds, shaking the table slightly. He finally stopped, panting, and wondered if it were possible for him to make enough noise to alert the servants to his presence. He quickly decided against trying, because there was no telling what his captor would do if angered. 

Closing his eyes somehow made the darkness less intimidating, so Hank kept them shut as he tried to think sensibly about what was happening to him. There simply _had_ to be a way out of this insane situation, and Hank was determined to find it.

* * *

Bobby found he had to put far more effort that usual into opening his eyes, and when he finally succeeded it took several more minutes before he realized where he was. Even when he recognized Preston's little room, he couldn't quite recall how he got there.

Slowly, he became aware of his throbbing foot and with the pain, the memory of his panicked rush from a charnel house. He sat up quickly, jarring his foot and wrenching a cry of pain from him.

Instantly, both Sheila and Preston were in the room and at his side. "Macushla!" Sheila had one hand on his forehead and the other arm around him in a smothering hug while Preston moved the blankets from his injured foot.

"Sheila!" Bobby tried to get his story out in as few words as possible. "Bedad, Sheila! It's a tomb..! Th'bleedin' divil! Musha, he had t'be a divil! A room o'the dead, he has, Sheila!"

"Hush..." Sheila hugged him closer. "Faith, and yer safe now, mavourneen. He'll not be after hurtin' ye again."

"I believe the swelling has gone down," Preston said. "With any luck it will be well enough to set later today." He covered the foot again and stood up. "He could probably do with some food and a new bandage. And I believe the swelling may have gone down enough to set the foot."

"Wait!" Bobby fought his way free of his sister's arms. "Listen t'me words! He was wearin' a mask, he was! And Hank--Hank..."

"Aye, Bobby," Sheila soothed. "Hank was at the Masque. Calm yerself, now."

"Nay!" Bobby shoved off the blankets and tried to get his good foot underneath him. "Bedad, if we don't have t'be goin' back t'Kelthorne Hall!"

"Nay, laddie, nay." Sheila gently pushed him back down. "Yer t'stay here while I'm after gettin' ye somethin' t'eat."

"I'm not wantin' any food!" Bobby struggled free of his sister's hands again. "Faith, yer not _listenin'_ t'me!"

Preston added his restraining hands to Sheila's, "Bobby, please be still." Then he turned to her, "Do you suppose I should give him a dose of laudanum?"

Bobby went still at Preston's words. He knew he had to stay awake and get to Kelthorne Hall to raise the alarm at all costs. If Sheila and Preston were not going to listen to him, Bobby made up his mind that he would get to Kelthorne on his own. With that in mind, Bobby forced himself to sound calm and even helpless. "Faith," he kept his voice low. "Feared out of me mind, I was. Musha, I'm better, now."

"Aye, Bobby," Sheila looked very relieved that her brother was coherent once again. "Ye've been burning wi'fever and pain. 'Tis not a wonder." She began smoothing his hair again. "And no doubt ye'll be wantin' somethin' in yer belly."

"Aye, I'm that hungry, Sheila."

"There's some stew left in the kitchen," Preston said. "If you get that, I'll get something for fresh bandaging and the makings of a splint."

Bobby could barely keep from grinning that everything was working out so neatly. Instead, he leaned back again and tried to look as though he had no intention of moving. The moment they were in the kitchen, however, Bobby was up on his good foot and hopping--albeit unsteadily--to the small window that opened to the street. Bobby knew it would be a tight fit for him--Preston, slim though he was, could not get through the rusted opening. He managed to get the grate opened with little noise and was then faced with the problem of boosting himself up and out. He tried to jump and nearly fell over. He was just considering whether or not he would be able to lift himself out with his arms when he heard his sister's shriek. Within seconds, there were arms around his chest and dragging him away from the window.

Then came a second set of footsteps. "Sheila? What in the world is happening?"

"Musha, he tried t'go out th'window, Preston!"

Bobby stopped struggling when Preston's restraining hands joined Sheila's. He forced himself to calm down for fear that they would dose him with laudanum after all. Since trying to explain as quickly as possible hadn't been effective, Bobby held himself in check as best he could. "Faith, but I'm not needin' any laudanum, truly," he insisted as they settled him back on the pallet. "I'm only tryin' t'say how me foot was after bein' smashed."

Seeing that Bobby was not rambling, Sheila motioned for Preston to sit rather than fetch the laudanum bottle. "Aye, Bobby. Faith, and don't we already know 'twas that same horrible man that tried takin' ye afore. Thank the blessed Virgin ye escaped him a second time."

"Nay, 'twas not me he was after takin' this second time--'twas Hank."

"Hank?!" Sheila's eyes grew wide. "That is...Mr. Grayson? Nay, I meant...Lord Rayner?"

"Aye, all three o'him!" Words began tumbling from Bobby despite his best efforts. "Bedad, and didn't I see him carryin' Hank off in his coach and Hank not movin' a'tall, a'tall?"

"What?" Preston asked. "But your foot..?"

"Didn't I have t'learn where he was after takin' Hank, then?" Bobby said forcefully. "I rode th'back of his coach to his house and climbed in a window t'get to Hank?"

"Bobby!" Sheila was horrified. "How could ye do somethin' so--"

"Sure, and didn't I have to help Hank as he had me?" Bobby demanded, and Sheila fell silent. "I climbed in a window, but when I lit a lamp--" Bobby swallowed hard as he remembered. "'Twas a tomb, Sheila...filled with cold, white dead..." His voice shook. "I heard someone, but I fell into th'arms o'the dead...I ran--I jumped out th'window--"

Anything else Bobby was going to say was muffled when Sheila caught him in a rib-crushing embrace. He clutched at her for a few minutes before pulling away.

"That's why I have t'be gettin' t'Kelthorne!" Bobby made an unsuccessful attempt to stand. "I have t'tell someone! If Hank's still alive, we have t'free him from that divil!"

"Aye, Bobby," Sheila agreed, although the look she exchanged with Preston indicated she doubted they would find Hank alive. "But ye could no more get t'Kelthorne than you could fly. D'ye remember the street, laddie?"

"I believe 'twas off Chapel Street or York Street..." Bobby frowned, "We passed St. James' Park, of that I'm certain. And even more certain that I would know the house should I see it again. "

Sheila nodded, then retrieved her bonnet and reticule. "I shall go t'Kelthorne to alert Lord Blackmoor."

"But--"

"'Twill take less time this way, Bobby. Should anyone be needing direction of you, their carriages are that much quicker than a hack."

Preston looked surprised Sheila's suddenly commanding air, but Bobby capitulated quite readily. "Aye, Sheila."

Sheila stooped to give Bobby a quick kiss, then turned to Preston. "You'll be after givin' me laddie some breakfast while I'm gone then?"

"I will that," Preston affirmed in the Irish fashion, making both his friends smile.

Sheila nodded, then swept out of the small room.

Bobby fell back against his bedding. For all his brashness and energy, he was grateful to his sister for taking the situation out of huis hands. 

* * *

Sheila hopped nimbly out of the hackney coach and handed the driver his fare and several extra coins. "You are to wait for me unless I wave you away."

"Aye, miss," the driver nodded.

Sheila wasn't certain whether the driver's respectful tone was the result of the tip or her imitation of Lord Blackmoor's haughty manner, but she didn't allow it to concern her for more than a few moments. She hurried up the front steps and knocked smartly on the door. It wasn't until she saw the footman's astonished expression that Sheila realized her mistake in not going around the back. She decided to brazen her way through the situation as best she could.

"Good day t'ye, Lorne. I'm here t'see Lord Blackmoor, if you please." She saw no reason to try and change her speech when the staffs were already well familiar with her Irish lilt.

Lorne gaped at her as though she were speaking Latin, however. "See Lord Blackmoor?" 

"Aye. Would ye fetch him, Lorne? I'm not presuming t'be shown to the parlor."

"Lord Blackmoor?" he repeated blankly.

Sheila stifled a sigh. "Faith, it's that important, Lorne, truly! If not his lordship, then Mr. Houghton. It's t'do wi--"

"Here!" screeched a furious voice. "Didn't I send you packing? How dare you present yourself at the front door!"

Sheila gritted her teeth as Mrs. Middlebar stormed up to the door. "I'm here to see Lord Blackmoor," she reiterated in a tight voice.

"See his lordship? You impudent wench! Take yourself off this minute!"

"Nay," Sheila stood her ground. "I'm calling upon his lordship. 'Tis none of your concern."

Mrs. Middlebar reddened with rage. "You nasty little wretch! Take yourself off at once! At once, I say!"

Lorne watched in helpless amazement as Sheila refused to yield. 

"If ye could fetch Mr. Houghton, then, Lorne?" Sheila deliberately turned her face away from the housekeeper and ignoring her from that point on.

"He'll do no such thing!" Mrs. Middlebar fairly snarled. "Call for the watch, Lorne. And then have Charles help you throw this insolent baggage of the steps."

The footman looked from Sheila to Mrs. Middlebar and back again. "Er...Mrs. Middlebar, that is..."

Sheila decided not to force Lorne into a decision that could lose him his position. She raised her chin, still refusing to acknowledge the housekeeper. "Don't bother yerself, Lorne. I'll be off. Good day to you."

"Don't be putting on such airs!" Mrs. Middlebar hissed. "You good-for-nothing little Paddy!"

Without so much of a glance at Mrs. Middlebar, Sheila turned and walked back to the hack. The driver looked at her questioningly. She was about to climb back into the coach when a new idea occurred to her. ""Would you be after waitin' for me another moment? There's another fare t'come," she asked, too flustered to remember her "Lady of the Manor" voice.

"Aye, I'll wait, then."

This time, Sheila hurried around to the back of the house and crept into the kitchen. Cook and all the kitchen maids all froze when she entered, having heard of her being sacked that morning. 

"What in heaven's name are ye doin' here, gel?" Cook asked.

"Musha, I must get Lady Silverbridge's direction, Cook." Sheila kept her voice low. "Who should I speak to?"

Cook studied Sheila's expression for a moment, then turned to a scullery maid. "Tessa, fetch Charles here at once. Tell him I want him."

"Aye, mum." Tessa darted up the stairs.

"Why were ye sacked, gel?" Cook asked Sheila. "What did old Middlebar have to complain of?"

Sheila hesitated, then decided there was no longer any reason to conceal her situation. "Me brother was hurt and I was after goin' to him. Mrs. Middlebar wouldn't allow it and we quarrelled."

Cook raised her eyebrows. "And is young Bobby well now?" At Sheila's startled look, she chuckled. "Oh, no one else knows. They didn't see you fussin' over him, did they?"

"Many thanks," Sheila smiled at her. "And he is better now."

"Here he is, Cook," Tessa announced as she walked back into the kitchen, Charles behind her.

Charles gaped when he saw Sheila as well. "You were just at the front door! Mrs. Middlebar is on her way down! If she finds you here..."

"Never say ye went to the front door, gel!" Cook was awestruck.

"I did, but there came Mrs. Middlebar," Sheila's lip curled involuntarily. "But 'tis neither here nor there. I need Lady Silverbridge's at once, Charles. I've a hack waiting for me."

That raised many eyebrows in the kitchen, but it also brought results. "Number 12 Barramore Square."

"My thanks, Charles. I bid you all good day," Sheila said before she rushed out of the kitchen. She ran along the walk to the hackney and jumped in. "Number 12 Barramore Square. At once."

"Aye, miss." Obviously sensing her urgency, the driver snapped the reins sharply and set off at a quick pace.

* * *

"Lady Ravenwood was most kind about the whole thing, although I believe I will be in Lord Ravenwood's back books for quite some time," Eric said as he followed Diana's example and sat down on the chair across from his.

"Surely not. No doubt he will realize that despite your quarrel, you certainly did not wish Lord Rayner any harm," Diana assured him. "It took great character for you to go. I know it could not have been easy to do. And I am most grateful that you called on me this morning, as well."

"I gave you my word, Lady Silverbridge," Eric reminded her. "Although this is the only one of today's obligations that brings me any pleasure."

"You are very kind to say so, sir," Diana smiled. "But what other obligations have you to fulfill today?"

"I shall have to call upon Lord Ravenwood again this afternoon. He is hiring a Runner to search for Rayner and I believe some of what I found--or rather, did not find last night may prove helpful."

"Last night?" Diana's eyes widened, then narrowed, "Never say you went out searching for Lord Rayner last night? Alone?"

Eric winced--he actually had not meant to mention his unsuccessful search. He wasn't entirely not entirely certain whether Diana would be annoyed with him for doing something dangerous or for not taking her along when he did it. "Not alone--exactly. But it is of no matter. I did not accomplish anything."

"Surely not. Why then would you--" Diana broke off as a footman entered the parlour with a disapproving expression on his face. "What is it, Joseph?"

"A young woman at the door, my lady. She is asking to see you." Joseph's lips tightened, "I told her to go around back to see the housekeeper if she wanted a position, but she refused."

"I would advise your housekeeper against hiring anyone with such impertinence," Eric suggested.

"Yes, my lord," the footman began to back out of the parlour, but Diana stopped him.

"Did she leave her name, Joseph?"

Joseph looked startled, but replied, "She did, my lady. A Miss O'Brien."

"You may show her up." Diana couldn't help but smile when she saw that the footman and the marquis wore identical expressions of astonishment. "Joseph?" she prompted.

"At once, my lady," Joseph gave a small bow and left the parlour.

"You are truly going to see this person?" Eric asked. "You certainly enjoy odd amusements, Lady Silverbridge."

Diana raised her eyebrows politely. "I can see her in another room if it offends you, my lord." A smile tugged at her lips. "Although I cannot comprehend why it would. She did, after all, attend your Masque."

"What? I certainly don't recall any--"

"Miss O'Brien, my lady," Joseph announced before standing aside to allow the young woman behind him to enter. As she sank into a low curtsey, he closed the door behind her.

"Good day to you, Miss O'Brien," Diana smiled.

"Good day, Lady Silverbridge," Sheila returned, then froze when she saw Eric. "Lord Blackmoor."

Eric's eyebrows rose. "I wasn't aware of an acquaintance, Miss O'Brien." When he saw Diana frown, he realized that his words sounded like a direct cut. "That is, I hope you will be able to refresh my memory."

"Perhaps you remember the night we took a rather ill-fated tour of...er, London, Lord Blackmoor."

Eric's jaw dropped, much to Diana's amusement. 

"Musha, m'lady, I've no time for this," Sheila said. "I've come on important business, I have."

"Now, see here..." Eric frowned at her. "You've no right to come in here and--"

"No need for that, Lord Blackmoor," Diana said, noticing Sheila's strained expression. "What's happened Miss O'Brien? I feared yesterday that you might have lost your post."

"Aye, that I did. But 'tis on another matter I've come." Sheila paused to catch her breath. "'Tis about Hank-- beggin' your pardon--Lord Rayner. I believe he may be in danger."

Diana gasped and Eric demanded, "What's this? What do you know of his disappearance?"

Sheila took a step back as Eric moved towards her. "The night of His Grace's Masque. Me brother and Preston had been hired as pages. Bobby was after fetchin' a coach for someone and he saw the divil-man puttin' Ha--Lord Rayner into a coach. 'Twas the same man Lord Rayner saved him from nights ago."

"Good God!" Diana sat down abruptly. 

"Bobby took himself onto the back o'the coach and rode back t'the man's home. Bein' himself, Bobby meant t'go in and save Lord Rayner." Sheila twisted her fingers in the strings of her reticule. "He climbed in through a window, but found him in...Faith, he called it a tomb, full o'the dead. I do not know if I'm believin' that but somethin' gave him such a fright that he jumped from a window and fled back to Covent Garden on a lame foot. He's been feverish and talkin' nonsense even since and only came 'round this very mornin'."

Eric was about to accuse her of lying and have Joseph put her out, but Diana had stood and taken both of Sheila's hands in her own. "Is your brother well now? Can he give us this man's direction?"

"He spoke o'two streets he may have been on, but does not know the house number. He's said he could find them again and meant to go himself."

"He could lead someone back to the house, then?" Diana persisted.

"Aye, that he could."

Diana turned to Eric. "Did you arrive in your curricle, sir? We can have a message delivered to Lord and Lady Ravenwood and be off at once."

Eric stared at her in amazement. "Do you believe I would raise their hopes on the word of...of..." He gestured towards Sheila.

Sheila raised her chin. "Am I so daft as t'make up such ramauch?"

"I've no notion," Eric scowled at her. "I barely recall ever seeing you in my life."

"Then we shall wish you good day, Lord Blackmoor," Diana's tone was frosty until she turned back to Sheila. "If you will wait here, Miss O'Brien, I will have my carriage brought around."

"Bloody hell!" Eric growled. "Very well, my lady, we shall follow this Banbury tale if nothing else will please you. Am I to know where we are to go haring off to before we depart?"

"Miss O'Brien?" Diana looked at Sheila inquisitively.

"He's after stayin' with Preston in Covent Garden."

"I will bring the curricle around," Eric said in a tight voice. "I trust you will be ready when I arrive at the door."

* * *

By the time the curricle rolled to a halt in Covent Garden, Eric had relented and was willing to believe Sheila's words. The entire ride was taken up by Sheila and Diana relating everything--to their knowledge--that had transpired on the night of the Masque. It was a shock for him to learn that Sheila had actually been employed by his family and he was astounded to hear that Diana had dressed her up to attend the ball. He also came to the conclusion that Hank believed he was meeting Sheila in the garden, but had, in reality, been lured there by his abductor. Neither Sheila nor Diana knew anything about such a meeting.

He also developed a grudging respect for Sheila O'Brien. She possessed a quiet sort of pride that impressed Eric in spite of himself and her concern for both her brother and Hank was plain to see. He no longer doubted anything she said and had urged the horses to a faster pace as concern began to envelope him as well.

Eric reined the horses just past the apothecary shop, as Sheila requested, but before the curricle came to a halt, Sheila was out and hurrying back up the street. "Are we to follow her?" he asked as Sheila's figure disappeared around the shop corner.

"She would have said so," Diana replied. 

"May I take the time to compliment you on your charming ensemble, then, Lady Silverbridge?"

Diana laughed and adjusted the veil attached to her dashing little hat. "I borrowed it from Lady Wylde, albeit without permission. I did not want to deprive you of your clothing again."

Eric choked on a laugh and Diana covered her mouth as she realized the implications of her words. She was saved from any further embarrassment by Sheila's return. With the maid were two boys Diana remembered from the night of "the incident." The taller, thinner boy was helping his smaller companion even though the younger boy had a makeshift crutch.

"Bobby, Preston," Sheila kept one hand on her brother's shoulder. "This is Lady Silverbridge and Lord Blackmoor."

Preston gave a bow much at odds with his shabby clothing, but Bobby shifted his crutch impatiently. "Are we not goin' t'fetch Hank? I'll be walkin' there by meself in a moment more."

"Bobby, mind your tongue!" Sheila hissed.

Bobby's urgency dispelled any remaining doubts Eric had. "Do you remember where this place is, lad?"

"''Twas Chapel or York Street, but I'll be knowin' that divil's house should I see it again."

"Excellent," Eric said with a quick nod. "You can tell me any more you know about it one the drive there." He jumped down from his curricle and flipped a sovereign to Preston. "You can fetch a hack, I trust?"

"Certainly, my lord," Preston paused only long enough to be sure Bobby was balanced before he hurried off to get a hackney coach.

Eric looked from Diana to Bobby to Sheila with a considering expression, then held out his hand to Diana. "Let's not have the lad standing on his lame foot any longer, my lady."

Diana looked briefly startled, then smiled. "Yes, of course," she said and allowed Eric to help her down.

No sooner did they have Bobby settled in the curricle than a hackney pulled up behind it. Eric held out his arm for Diana again. "While I regret the necessity of you and Miss O'Brien having to ride in a hired hack, I trust you will not be greatly offended."

"Not at all, sir," Diana readily walked with him to the hackney, Sheila following behind.

When both women were seated, Eric gestured for the driver to come down. He gave the man Lady Wylde's direction and enough pound notes to make the rheumy eyes widen. "You are to go directly to that address no matter what either of your passengers may say to the contrary," Eric ordered in a low voice. "Is that understood?"

"Aye, m'lord. Just as you like it, m'lord," the driver bobbed his head several times before climbing back up on his box.

"Lady Silverbridge," Eric said as the driver took up his reins. "Would you be so good as to alert Lord and Lady Ravenwood upon your return home?"

"Upon our ret--?" Diana's expression became dangerous as realization struck, but the hackney had started off and there was nothing she could do.

Eric watched it roll away. "If I don't bring Rayner back well and whole, I'll have the very devil to pay."

"I beg your pardon, my lord," Preston said tentatively. "But I daresay you'll have the devil to pay even if you do."

Eric looked at him with some surprise, then snorted. "You may be right at that. Let's be off then and see if there is anything to be done before Ravenwood and his Runners get word."

Back in the curricle, Bobby looked at them curiously as they got in. "Sure and didn't I see Sheila and her ladyship drive away. Where are they off to?"

"I sent them back to Lady Silverbridge's home where they will be safe." Eric flicked the reins and his horses set off and a quick, fashionable trot.

Bobby's eyes widened. "I'm glad of that. Faith, 'tis amazing that y'managed to talk me sister int'leavin' me behind."

"He didn't, Bobby," Preston said. "He tricked them."

"Did he now?" Bobby looked at Eric with new respect. "Musha, you're fairly clever f'r a Sassenach, ye are."

Eric shot him a wry look. "Thank you."

"There!" Bobby tried to stand despite his broken foot and the close confines of the curricle. "'Tis the very--Faith, yer passin' it!"

"Stop bouncing yourself about," Eric ordered as he reined the horse a bit further down the street. He looked back at the house and frowned. "I've never been in the house myself, but I believe--" he gave Bobby a sharp look. "Are you quite certain this is the house you were in?"

"Aye. The very one."

"I believe that Baron Vengrave lives here," Eric mused. "He was rather famous at one time, I've heard. But he doesn't go into Society anymore--the man's practically a recluse."

"What has that t'do with anything?" Bobby demanded.

"If he doesn't go into Society, he likely would not have been at the Masque," Preston explained. 

Eric fastened the reins to the curricle's dash. "I'll call upon him and see what this is about."

Preston frowned, "Is that the best way to proceed, my lord?"

Bobby didn't bother with manners--"Are ye bloody daft?"

Eric blinked, not used to having his decisions challenged, and certainly not by a pair of street urchins. "I know what I'm about," he insisted in a tone meant to put both boys back in their proper place. "You are to wait here until I return." He got out of the curricle, ignoring the derisive snort from behind him. He walked up the steps and knocked smartly on the door.

In the curricle, Bobby watched with the disgust. "Bloody hell. Bloody spalpeen. I should be drivin' off in this fancy trap o'his. Bloody amadan of a Sassenach."

"Ssh, Bobby," Preston cautioned. "He'll hear you."

"Does he truly believe that divil is goin' t'be invitin' him in f'r tea and then take him t'where he's holdin' Hank a prisoner?"

"Here he comes," Preston nudged Bobby to keep quiet.

"You must be mistaken about the house," Eric said when he returned. "Vengrave has been from Town for more than a fortnight."

"Bedad, but y'must be the biggest gommach I ever had the bad cess t'meet." In spite of the crutch and his injury, Bobby had scrambled out of the curricle and was stumping toward the house before either Eric or Preston could stop him.

"Here!" Eric exclaimed. "Get yourself back in this carriage at once!"

"He's very certain this is the correct house," Preston told him.

"Nonsense," Eric snorted. "The man's been in the country for more than a week."

"The man instructed his butler to say so," Preston countered. "It wouldn't be the first time staff has been told to say their master is 'not at home.'"

"Don't be ridiculous. I told the man who I was. Do you believe the Baron would not be at home to a Marquis?"

"But--" Preston shook his head and gave up the argument. He ignored Eric's cursing and hurried around the side of the townhouse in search of his friend.

Bobby was waiting at the base of a tree and grinned when he saw Preston. "Faith, and didn't I know ye'd be after followin' me?"

Preston looked up at the first floor windows. "Do you suppose the window is still unlocked?"

"Not likely."

Both boys turned at the sound of Eric's voice. Bobby favoured him with a fierce scowl. "Shouldn't y'be on yer way, _me lord_?"

Preston was impressed that Bobby could make the title sound like a vile insult. It even managed to permeate Eric's complacent self-assurance, and the aristocratic jaw tightened somewhat although he refused to acknowledge Bobby's taunt. "One can only assume that you intend to break into this residence whether I agree or not."

"Aye, that's the right of it." Bobby tried to hoist himself onto one of the lower branches. "I know in me heart Hank is inside these walls and I mean t'free him from that bleedin' divil as he did me."

Eric watched in silence as Preston struggled to help Bobby. A wry smile tugged at his lips almost involuntarily. "I suppose I should be quite happy to see that neither of you has the slightest knowledge of criminal behaviour. You both are quite useless as housebreakers."

Preston and Bobby both stopped what they were doing to stare as Eric strolled around to the back of the townhouse. After a few moments, they followed and found Eric waiting for them by the doors that opened in from the small garden.

"Loathe though I am to encourage your behaviour," Eric said, one hand on the door handle. "I just saw a mob of servants leave through the kitchen door. Likely with the master of the house away, the staff has taken a day off." He opened the door and peered inside briefly before turning back to his companions. "If you insist upon doing this, now would be the best time."

Bobby didn't need any more encouragement than that. So quickly that Eric didn't have time to react, he had stumped into the house and headed for the stairs.

"Here!" Eric hissed, rushing after the boy. "We don't know that all the help are away." He caught up with Bobby halfway up the stairs. "Show me which room you say holds the bodies," he ordered, sounding as though he still didn't believe it existed. "We can search for Rayner after we've determined if this is the correct house."

"It is that," Bobby insisted as they reached the first floor landing. He glanced over his shoulder. "Where is Preston?"

"One can only presume he decided to stay downstairs to keep watch," Eric said dryly. "He seems a clever fellow."

"Aye, he is," Bobby returned, making his way down the hallway. He stopped and looked carefully up and down the hall, then at the door in front of him with the first sign of hesitation. "'Twould be this door, t'go by the windows outside." He reached for the door knob, but then pulled back.

"What's the matter?" Eric joined him at the door.

"Musha, I don't know that I want t'go in again," Bobby squeezed his eyes shut.

"Not to worry," Eric jostled him out of the way slightly. "I still doubt there's anything of the sort here, and if there is, the door will likely be locked." He blinked when the doorknob turned easily, but recovered himself quickly. "Care to have a look at Lord Vengrave's study, lad?"

Bobby backed away as Eric pushed the door open and stepped inside, but he immediately sensed a change in the Marquis' demeanor.

"Merciful God..." Eric breathed. He walked further into the room as though compelled by and invisible force.

Bobby finally worked up the nerve to follow Eric into the room and for a moment he was relieved. "Faith, 'tis not corpses a'tall."

"Not quite," Eric kept his voice low.

"They...are they dolls?"

"Vengrave was a famous portrait doll maker at one time," Eric explained. "But he supposedly gave it up years ago."

"But these dolls look--"

"As though they were modelled after the dead," Eric finished. "And life-sized, I'd wager." He took a step away from a child's figure whose face was frozen in a rictus of pain and backed into the arms of a porcelain woman who looked as though she'd died in agony, as well. "Damnation. It's no wonder you jumped from the window."

"D'ye suppose the divil digs up the bodies?" Bobby was carefully staying in the center of the room, well away from any dolls.

Eric frowned at him. "You were hardly dead and buried when he tried to snatch you from the street."

Bobby's eyes widened. "Blessed Mother, he kills and then makes their portraits?"

"I believe so," Eric studied the skeletal thin doll or a youth that had could very well have died of starvation. "And not always quickly, I daresay. One hopes he does the same with Rayner."

"Are ye mad?" Bobby gasped. "Yer after wishin' for Hank t'be starved?"

"He will still be alive if that is the case."

"Excellent deduction," hissed a voice from the doorway. "You are to be commended, Lord Blackmoor."

Eric caught Bobby's arm when the boy would have spun around and instead made him turn slowly. It took a great deal of effort, but Eric managed to keep his expression fixed in a disdainful sneer as he faced the man holding a pistol on them from the doorway.

"The American does indeed have several more days to live," Vengrave acknowledged. A grin twisted his hard face. "Sadly, the same cannot be said for either of you."

* * *

Diana crumpled yet another hopelessly blotted sheet of paper and tossed it aside. "Bloody hell," she gritted out between clenched teeth.

"My lady," Sheila was torn between shock and laughter.

Diana took a fresh sheet and jabbed her pen into the inkwell again. "Of all the abominable nerve--" she glanced at Sheila. "Do you not find his orders the height of arrogance?"

In spite of the situation, Sheila couldn't help smiling. "Faith, but isn't being ordered hither and yon by the Fancy part of life for someone of my station?"

"I suppose it would be," Diana looked thoughtful, then shook her head. "But I am not accustomed to following the orders of a gentleman--even if he is a Marquis."

"Aye, 'tis plain enough to see that."

"Truly, Blackmoor has no call to pack us off in such a manner," Diana grumbled. Her pen continued to move rapidly across the paper as she spoke. "I count Rayner as a friend and it is quite plain that there is an attachment between you and he."

Sheila colored up to her forehead, "Lady Silverbridge--"

"What's more, your brother is involved." Diana stamped the wax seal with more force than was strictly necessary. "It really is appalling of him. So..."

"So?"

"So will you join me when I make my way to Chapel and York Streets?"

"Ye're after followin' them, my lady?"

"I am. The moment these letters are sent off I'll have the coach brought around." Diana rose to summon a footman.

"The coach?"

"Unless you feel it would be better to ride. It certainly would be quicker, I suppose. Do you ride?"

"Aye, but d'ye believe this t'be a sound notion, your ladyship?"

"Not a bit, but I mean to do it all the same." Diana picked the letters up when a footman entered the parlor, then darted a quick glance at Sheila. "Will you join me in this unsound notion, Miss O'Brien?"

"I will that," Sheila replied without hesitation.

Diana grinned as she turned to the footman. "Please have these letters delivered immediately. And have George saddle Stargazer and Sorlars and bring them around at once."

"At once, my lady," the footman bowed and departed.

"Come, Miss O'Brien," Diana grabbed Sheila's hand and started for the stairs. "There is just time for us to change before the horses arrive."

"And what d'ye wear when settin' off for a rescue?" Sheila asked in a dry tone that would have impressed even the Marquis.

Diana paused, but only briefly. "An excellent point. The time would likely be better spent loading my father's pistol."

* * *

When Preston nearly ran into Vengrave's butler on his way to the staircase, he was certain he would be on his way to Newgate Prison next. He managed to slip behind the parlor door and held his breath until the man had passed him.

Concerned though he was about catching up to Eric and Bobby, Preston waited until he was certain the butler had gone back down to the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, he crept from the parlor and up the stairs, but froze near the top when an unfamiliar voice drifted toward him.

"...very foolish of you to concern yourself with the colonial, Blackmoor. But there is the comfort of knowing that you and the little Paddy will live on forever thanks to my talents."

"A great comfort."

Hearing Eric's sarcasm, Preston was emboldened to move up a few more steps and peer across the floor. He watched as three pairs of feet made their way down the hall. Then came the sound of a lock unlocking and the feet moved through an open door.

"Bloody hell."

Eric's exclamation drew Preston even further up the stairs until he could see in through the half-open door. A glimpse of pale blond hair confirmed what Bobby had been saying all along, but left Preston wondering what to do next.

"Hank, are ye badly hurt?" Bobby asked, but there was no reply from the Viscount.

"I'm not entirely certain how the pair of you will be immortalized," Baron Vengrave continued. "But I will most certainly have to decide before sundown."

Preston knew what "immortalized" truly meant in this case, and it was enough to send him scrambling back down the stairs. His concern over meeting up with the butler had vanished into bigger fears, but he still checked for the man before rushing through the kitchen--which was fortunately empty.

Once out on the street, Preston looked up and down for a hackney, but the street was deserted except for a single vehicle. After another desperate look around, Preston hurried to the Marquis' curricle. He had heard Eric give Lady Silverbridge's direction when they were in Covent Garden, so finding the ladies would not be a problem. As he climbed into the curricle, Preston realized his problem was that he never in his life had either ridden or driven a horse.

 _Nothing for it now_ , he decided. Taking a deep breath, he snapped the reins sharply over the backs of Eric's high-spirited pair of horses.

* * *

Diana was relieved to leave Grosvenor Place for the less-traveled Arabella Row. Although a lady riding horseback was common enough, it was generally in the park, in the company of a groom and at a fairly sedate pace. Two women racing down a busy street at a near-gallop turned nearly every head they passed. It wasn't terribly scandalous, but because Diana was an heiress and an Original, the run was sure to become _on dit_.

Although she did not relish being the subject of gossip, Diana had other concerns on her mind at the moment. Sheila had slowed her horse slightly and guided it close enough to speak. "D'ye wish t'be visitin' York or Chapel first?"

Diana glanced around them, a bit dismayed. "I need a moment to get my bearings. I am not familiar with this area of Town."

"Not t' worry," Sheila reassured her. "I used t'work for Lady Seaton, and her livin' in Belgrave. I've been in this part of London often enough."

"Which street is closest?"

"York, but only by a wee block or so."

"York it is, then. Lead the way."

They were off again, at an even greater pace. They were able to gallop up the length of York Street, but did not see Blackmoor's curricle anywhere. Sheila reined her horse in order to turn down a small lane and Diana gamely followed. They trotted down several more tiny lanes and were just approaching a slightly wider street when both their mounts shied back from an out-of-control gig that rattled past. 

Diana's mouth fell open. "That was..."

"Preston," Sheila said in amazement. "Holy Mother save us, for the lad isn't knowin' the first thing about horses."

The girls hesitated only long enough to exchange glances before racing after the curricle. It wasn't _quite_ a runaway, but plainly the horses and not the driver were in charge of the situation. However, the animals grew obedient enough under the firm hold of the young women and responded when Preston began pulling steadily back on the reins as instructed by Sheila.

"Faith, Preston," Sheila gasped when they'd finally come to a halt. "Have ye lost yer senses? And you not knowin' a thing about horses."

"No choice," Preston panted. "I had to get help...but--but I couldn't find a hack."

"Get help?" Diana's voice rose in alarm. "Where are Lord Blackmoor and Bobby?"

"Inside. He caught them and he has Lord Rayner. He didn't know I was there because I was hiding from the butler--"

"Faith, Preston," Sheila dismounted and hurried towards him. "Yer makin' no sense."

Preston took a deep breath and tried again. "We found the house and went inside. I almost ran into the butler--"

"Is Lord Rayner there?" Diana cut him off when he began to ramble again.

"Yes. I saw him."

"Do you know who this man is?"

"Lord Blackmoor said it was a Baron Vengrave."

"And they're in danger?"

"He has a pistol."

Ignoring Sheila's gasp, Diana persisted in her questions. "And do you know his address?"

Preston frowned slightly because Diana had barely glanced at him during the interrogation and instead kept looking up and down the street, but she seemed to be paying attention, so he replied--"Forty-seven York Street."

"I may need this horse, Miss O'Brien," Diana took Sorlars' reins. "Wait for me. I'll only be a moment." She kicked her mount and galloped back the way they had come.

Sheila moved to the horses' heads and led them in a tight circle before climbing in and taking the reins from Preston. "Were any of them hurt?"

"Not yet," Preston said before he thought. Then he hastily added, "From what I saw, the man likes to take his time about such things."

"Bloody madman," Sheila whispered, then looked up at the clatter of hooves.

"I've sent a man to Kelthorne with a note, but Vengrave must be stopped at once." Diana barely reined her horse long enough to speak before galloping up the street.

Preston had no time to even consider replying before Sheila was snapping the reins and urging the pair to a run.

Diana had dismounted by the time Sheila halted the curricle, and started towards the front steps, leaving the others to catch up.

Preston broke into a run, "My lady!" He moved to block her way, "Lady Silverbridge, you can't mean to announce yourself at the front door."

Diana halted, looking hesitant for the first time since starting out. "How did you get inside, then?"

"Through the kitchen," Preston explained, leading them to the back door. "Almost all the servants are out of the house. The only one we have to watch out for is the butler." 

"Is the butler knowin' what his master gets himself up to?"

Preston shook his head. "I couldn't say for certain. He must, though, or Vengrave would have sent him away with the others."

The trio fell silent when they reached the door, and remained so while Preston led them through the house and up the stairs. They did not encounter the butler anywhere, but were still as careful and quiet as possible. Preston paused several steps from the top, but Diana brushed past him for a better look. Although she made no sound, Preston felt her stiffen when she caught sight of the room's interior. 

When Diana moved to go up another step, Preston grabbed a fold of her skirt to stop her, surprising them both. Diana turned to frown at him, as unused to having street urchins tug at her dress as Preston was to doing it. Still, he managed to marshal himself enough to shake his head firmly. And in vain, because Diana's frown only deepened and she fumbled in her large reticule and pulled out a pistol.

Preston released her skirt at once. Now resigned to the inevitable, he did not need Sheila's nudge at his back to prompt him to follow Diana up the last few steps and towards the half-open door.

Wishing for soft slippers instead of riding boots, Diana moved carefully down the hall, making certain that her heels didn't make the slightest click on the floor. As she angled herself through the half-open door, Eric caught sight of her and his jaw dropped. Diana couldn't keep the scowl off her face because she was certain Vengrave would notice in seconds. Swiftly, she stepped through the door and raised the pistol in both hands. "Baron Vengrave, I advise you to lower that pistol at once."

Diana watched Vengrave start slightly and the pistol in his hand dropped lower almost on reflex. She heard Sheila and Preston hurry to follow her into the room and took her eyes off Vengrave long enough to glance at his captives. She had a fleeting impression of Hank's amazement, Bobby's admiration and Eric's furious disapproval before focusing her full attention back on the Baron. "Lord Blackmoor," she spoke to Eric but kept her eyes and pistol on Vengrave. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to free Lord Rayner. I believe we should be on our way."

Eric looked as though he had several things he wanted to say in response to the order and even opened his mouth once or twice. After several moments of glaring, however, he thought the better of it and turned to the table to begin untying Hank.

"Don't touch him!" Vengrave seethed. "He is my portrait. You have no rights to him!"

"Bobby," Sheila gestured to the open door just behind her. "Come away at once, macushla."

After a quick glance at Hank, Bobby readjusted his crutch under his arm and began stumping toward his sister.

"You!" Vengrave snarled as the boy drew even with him. "You presumptuous little bog-trotter!"

Bobby stopped and when it looked at though he might respond, Sheila spoke again, more firmly--"Come away, Bobby."

Diana saw the Baron's eyes narrow at Bobby, alight with mad cunning. "Mr. Hatfield," she said quietly. "Perhaps it would be best if you relieved Baron Vengrave of his pistol."

Both Preston and Vengrave started and looked at Diana, one with uncertainty and the other with intense malice. Then Preston began to move hesitantly toward the Baron, who looked around the wildly before focusing on the table where Hank was trying to raise himself on trembling arms.

Preston approached carefully, his hand outstretched for the pistol at Vengrave's side. Bobby stopped halfway across the room, watching with interest. His eyes soon widened in horror when Vengrave grabbed Preston by the scruff of the neck with his free hand and tossed the youth viciously aside. 

When she saw the hand gripping the pistol swing upward, Diana screamed "No!" and fired her own pistol. Vengrave flinched, but the shot went harmlessly past him and shattered the window just behind. Without so much as a glance to aim, Vengrave fired toward the table, wringing a yell from Eric and a hoarse shout from Hank. Then he dropped his pistol and advanced on Diana. He hadn't gone more than a step before Bobby barrelled into his midsection, crutch and all. With a pained grunt, Vengrave stumbled closer to the window, but managed to lock his fingers around Bobby's neck as he went. "Better that I'd killed you the moment I found you in the gutter!" he snarled.

"Bobby!" Sheila rushed to her brother's aid, barely noticing when she collided with Diana in her blind panic.

Bobby's frantic stuggles had backed Vengrave up against the broken window frame. When both girls fell against them as well, momentum and gravity took over. His hands still locked around Bobby's throat, Vengrave had no way to stop himself as he toppled out the window.

Seeing Bobby being dragged out as well, both girls lunged for him. Sheila only managed to grab two handfuls of his shabby vest, but Diana caught hold of his good leg and grimly held on.

Bobby scrabbled desperately but uselessly at the hands cutting off his breathing. He felt himself falling, then was suddenly jerked to a halt in midair and slammed against the damaged window frame. Vengrave's hands were wrenched away as the Baron continued his deadly plunge and Bobby saw stars as pain lanced through both his leg and head. Then there was only darkness.

The next thing Bobby was aware of were a multitude of aches and pains throughout his body. In his initial fogginess he thought the cause was his sister's deathly tight embrace, but as his mind cleared, he realized he was covered in dozens of cuts and slashes. He heard frantic voices coming from all around, and tried to straighten up, only to have Sheila tighten her hold. 

"Be still, mavoureen," she murmured. "'Tis all over and done with now."

Bobby settled for shifting slightly and craning his neck to look around the room. Hank was freed from his bonds and sitting up, apparently injured, although he was so weak and exhausted that he needed Diana's support to remain upright. Eric was on the floor, his coat and shirt soaked with blood, and Preston was crouched over him.

"How bad is it?" Hank's voice was barely audible.

"I don't believe he's in any immediate danger," Preston replied, tying Eric's cravat into a makeshift bandage. "I've managed to stop the bleeding, but he will need a surgeon--and soon."

"Rather good work for an apprentice," Eric sounded mildly surprised.

"One of us will have to go for help," Diana said. "Obviously neither of their lordships are in any condition to do so. Miss O'Brien, if you would prefer to stay here with your brother, Mr. Hatfield and I will drive to--"

"You'll do no such thing," Eric said, managing to sound arrogant in spite of his weakness. "God knows there will be enough scandal if word ever gets out that you were here and--"

Diana shot him a dangerous scowl. "I do beg your pardon if my concern for your well-being overwhelmed any sense of propriety. Rest assured it will not happen again."

Eric blinked and quickly tried to backpedal. "Not that we aren't grateful for the way you came to our aid, but--"

"And Miss O'Brien," Hank added, his voice sounding a bit stronger.

Sheila looked up in surprise and Bobby barely managed to smother a grin.

"--and Miss O'Brien came to our aid," Eric acknowledged. "But still--"

A sudden commotion from the ground floor made everyone freeze momentarily. When it was followed be angry voices, Sheila scrambled for the pistol Vengrave had dropped and Preston picked up the one Diana had discarded.

"They'll be of little use," Eric pointed out.

"They're all we have," Sheila retorted, forgetting to be respectful. 

She got to her feet and took aim, but when the first man rushed through the door, she let out a startled yelp and let the useless weapon clatter to the floor.

The Duke of MacArran paused only long enough to glance at Sheila and comment-- "Have a care with that, lass," before kneeling on the floor next to his grandson.

Lord and Lady Ravenwood were next through the door, followed closely by Lady Wylde.

Diana, rather giddy with relief, caught her guardian's hands. "Lady Wylde, Lady Ravenwood, don't you know it is highly dangerous for you to be rushing into such a situation?"

"Nonsense, child," Lady Wylde said sharply. "We both brought pistols."

"A lady carrying a pistol? Fancy that." Diana grinned at Eric, but he far too surprised by his grandfather's tight embrace to even consider a reply.

"Very clever of you to send that note, Lady Silverbridge," Lord Ravenwood complimented her while his wife fussed tearfully over Hank. "And no doubt you have an equally clever explanation as to why the famous Baron Vengrave is out front impaled on his own fence when--"

  


_"Robert Niall O'Brien!"_

__

_Bobby flinched and tried to don an innocent expression when he faced his sister._

__

_"Is this the bedtime story they've been raving about all week?"_

__

__

_"Raving?" Bobby turned back to his niece and nephew with a pleased smile. "You guys liked it that much, huh?"_

__

__

_Hank Grayson coughed to cover a laugh as both five-year-olds nodded enthusiastically. Then he caught his wife's glare and tried to look sternly at his brother-in-law. "We're lucky they haven't been having nightmares the whole time you've been here."_

__

__

_Bobby held up his hands in defense. 'I'm just following orders. I was told by Daisy that is was supposed to be creepy and a long time ago, and Devin wanted scary and not too mushy. What else was I supposed to do? Besides," he winked at the twins. "These two are such holy terrors it would take more and a single story to spook them. Right, guys?"_

__

__

_In reply, Daisy pounced on him, her strawberry blonde curls flying every which way. Devin soon followed and they both pummeled their broad-shouldered uncle unmercifully._

__

__

_Sheila watched the wrestling match with resignation and even a hint of a smile. Despite what Hank said, there hadn't been the slightest sign of dreams from the twins during Bobby's stay. Bobby played them out so much during the day that they slept like logs all through the night. And the twins returned the favor--Bobby claimed that they were tougher on him that Arizona State's meanest coach._

__

__

_There weren't many twenty-year-old jocks who would spin such a tale for a pair of preschoolers, Hank reflected. But then, there weren't many college baseball MVPs who would forego Spring Break in Daytona for a week with his sister's family in Gem Village, Colorado. Of course, Bobby would never be an ordinary college athlete, any more than Hank and Sheila were run-of-the-mill cattle ranchers, Diana Curry an average personal trainer, Presto Williams merely a special effects designer or Eric Montgomery an unexceptional trust fund baby._

__

__

_Some things remained the same, though, lending comfortable continuity when more than two or three of them met--which they did often. Eric's sarcasm, Diana's optimism and Presto's self-deprecating humor were all still a large part of their personalities. And Sheila, despite having children of her own, still doted on her younger brother, who was as brash and boisterous at twenty as he had been at ten._

__

__

_"Okay, that's enough now," Sheila lifted Devin from Bobby's stomach. "It's past your bedtime and Bobby needs to get some sleep, too. He has a long drive tomorrow."_

__

__

_"Do you have to leave?" Daisy turned pleading blue eyes on her uncle._

__

__

_"'Fraid so, Maggie May," Bobby was the only one who occasionally called little Margaret Grayson that instead of_ Daisy _. "I have to go back to school."_

__

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_"But the story isn't finished!" Daisy pointed out, and Devin immediately added his voice to that argument._

__

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_"We heard the last part of the story," Hank countered. "The villain got his and the good guys won." He moved to pick up Daisy, but she wrapped her arms around Bobby's neck and hung on._

__

__

_"But we don't know happened to everybody!" Daisy leaned back a bit to look Bobby in the eye. "Did the prince marry the maid?"_

__

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_"He wasn't a_ prince _," Devin scoffed, disgusted by his sister's lack of attention to detail. "And I want to know what happened to the apprentice."_

__

__

_Bobby grinned engagingly at his sister while the twins added beseeching looks of their own._

__

__

_Sheila rolled her eyes and glanced at Hank, who nodded and laughed. "All right, then," she dropped Devin back on the bed. "Bobby, you've got ten minutes to wrap this up, then all three of you go straight to bed."_

__

__

_For a split-second it looked as though Bobby was going to protest being sent to bed like one of the children, but instead he was silent for several moments before smiling at the twins._

__  
  


The ball given by Lady Wylde to celebrate the engagement of Lady Silverbridge to the Marquis of Blackmoor was grand enough to rival the MacArran Masque. Among those in attendance were the Viscount and Viscountess Rayner. Hank and Sheila had been engaged at Christmas, well after Hank's recovery, and were wed six months later. They had only recently returned from their wedding tour and were still receiving best wishes from all and sundry, so it was no great surprise when a diminutive man approached them and gave a polite bow. He was extremely short and wrinkled and seemed to be trying to make up for his lack of height by wearing his white hair extremely long.

The little man congratulated them on their recent marriage and inquired about their wedding trip to Ireland and how Sheila's brother was getting on in his new surroundings.

Knowing how news travelled through Society, Hank and Sheila thought nothing of this knowledge and replied that Bobby had adapted quite nicely to life with the Earl and Countess of Ravenwood. Bobby had grown accustomed to being doted upon while living in the home of Lady Wylde when Sheila acted as companion to Diana. It was this elevated position that allowed Sheila and Hank to wed with merely a few raised eyebrows rather than a scandal.

When the little man commented that Lord and Lady Ravenwood might not be the most steadying influence on a rambunctious eleven-year-old, the newlyweds were indignant but still managed to smile politely.

When the little man asked after the progress of Preston Hatfield, who had become the protegée of the Duke of MacArran, the newlyweds wondered why he did not ask the Duke himself. Still, they replied that Preston was very successful in his medical studies and was getting on surprisingly well with both the Duke and Eric.

When the little man began talking about Hank's captivity at the hands of Baron Vengrave, the newlyweds abruptly ended the conversation and made their way to the other side of the ballroom. No one except their close circle knew the true cause of Vengrave's death and Hank couldn't imagine where the little stranger learned enough to ask such detailed questions.

They had just finished telling Eric and Diana about the odd little man when they were joined by Lord and Lady Ravenwood. "I see you finally made the acquaintance of the Earl of Masters," Lady Ravenwood said.

"I beg your pardon," Hank blinked in confusion. The only contact he'd had with the man whose title he was to inherit was a single letter after the announcement of his engagement.

"We just spoke to him. He seemed quite pleased with both of you. Of course, we had no notion he was even in Town."

"Just like the man," Lord Ravenwood added. "No sign of him for months--not even a letter, and then he just appears out of nowhere."

Hank's jaw had dropped and Sheila's expression was a mixture of horror and amusement. "That...that was the Earl of Masters?" Hank asked weakly.

"He didn't even introduce himself," Eric did not sound impressed.

"We were after bein' a wee bit short with him," Sheila explained to Lady Ravenwood.

"We really should speak to him again," Hank said.

Lord Ravenwood glanced around. "There he is, near the door to the buffet."

Sheila took Hank's arm and they quickly made their way back across the room, but when they got there, Masters had disappeared. Bobby and Preston, however, were just leaving the buffet with full plates. "Have you seen a very short little man?" Hank asked them. "Either of you?"

"He was just speaking to us," Preston said, seeing as Bobby's mouth was to full to reply. "Then he went to speak to Lady Wylde. There," he pointed. "By the staircase."

They looked and saw a glimpse of long, white hair. Pausing only long enough for Sheila to tell Bobby not to eat too much, they hurried to the staircase only to find he'd vanished again. Hank sighed, "Where on earth does he keep disappearing to?"

"Not to worry," Sheila assured him. "If he's after wantin' to speak to us again, surely he knows where to find us."

"True enough," Hank looked to the dance floor where Eric and Diana had begun the first waltz. "Shall we dance then, my Lady Rayner?"

"We will that, my lord," Sheila smiled as she took his hand.

  


_"'And they all lived happily ever after,'" Daisy sighed blissfully._


End file.
